On First Tries, Sticky Dough, and Letting Go of Imperfectionism as We Heal
This week has been a challenging one for me. It’s my second year in the UK, and I’m still not used to so many overcast days. I miss the sun, and I’m feeling homesick.
So, I turned to something that always brings me comfort, baking. I made a sourdough banana pecan bread, and two loaves of khorasan sourdough in pullman tins, so it’s easy slicing for sandwiches (pictures below my signature).
As I baked, I reminisced about the many lessons learned from bread making through the years, and remembered my first loaves.
Today, I’d like to share something about those first loaves with you, and the parallels between the process of learning to make bread, my own healing, and how I support my clients.
My First Loaves
So, back to 2019… I’d been wanting to bake a sourdough loaf for months. But although I felt pretty comfortable in the kitchen and had quite a bit of experience baking cakes and desserts, the thought of making a loaf of bread from scratch was utterly intimidating.
A friend had told me all about her sourdough adventures, and we made rosca de Reyes together (she made the dough and I shaped it; decorating was a team effort). A cousin had invited me to bake bread with him a couple of times and I really enjoyed kneading. But both times, he was the one who made the dough, mixed everything, and ran the industrial oven at his bakery.
I still wanted to do the whole process myself, at home. But I just hadn’t dared. I was getting stuck on a bit (okay, a lot) of perfectionism, and this idea that, since I’m usually pretty skilled in the kitchen, my bread had to turn out well, because otherwise, how embarrassing! Embarrassing to whom, exactly? Not a clue, as the bread was for me…
Anyway, I’d been gearing up for a few weeks: gathering all the tools, reading a bread making book for beginners, and telling myself I had to follow every step to the letter. That gave me some peace of mind, but also a bit of a “meh” feeling (you’ve probably spotted it, I was sucking all the joy out of it).
I was dead set on baking a sourdough loaf because otherwise, in my mind it just didn’t count as real bread. Thankfully, the book suggested starting with something simpler: a quick yeasted bread that’s done in a day, or one with a pre-ferment that takes two days total. That helped me ease up on the self-imposed pressure a bit. ;)
A Bit of Joy
So, a little nervously but very excitedly, I got to work on my biga (that’s the name of the pre-ferment). I followed almost all the instructions, but instead of just wheat flour, I made a mix of wheat, rye, and barley. My creativity and playfulness were aching for a way in, even if I was scared it might go terribly wrong.
I’m smiling as I write this, at my brain's habit of catastrophizing, even with the smallest things that are meant to be for fun. I’m also feeling compassion for the ways in which, like most of the people I work with, I’ve been conditioned to not trust my intuition and spontaneity, and also rejoicing in the fact that I’ve made progress in reclaiming that trust. But I’m getting ahead of myself, back to those first loaves.
It was fascinating to watch myself through the whole thing: enjoying it and feeling unsure, mixing by hand, nervously eyeing the dough, smelling it, and wondering whether I was shaping it “properly”. And throughout, practicing patience—hours and hours between steps.
As I neared the final stage and flipped the basket over to release the first loaf, it got stuck. Instead of a perfectly shaped ball, out came a wonky, half-torn, squashed blob. I thought, “Well, that’s how you learn.”
Learning in the Mess
I told Oscar (my then-partner-now-husband) what had happened, and he said (very sweetly but not super helpfully), “What?! But everything you make in the kitchen always turns out great.” You can imagine my inner critic doing a victory dance.
Thankfully, I was able to apply a skill I’d learned in an emotional regulation workshop: pause, and check in with discernment: What’s needed in this moment to ground myself, keep going, and create the conditions for what I’m trying to do?
I told Oscar his comment wasn’t exactly helping, reminded him (more to remind myself, really) that it was my first time baking bread, and said, “Oh well, next time, I need more flour.”
For the second loaf, I was more careful and patient getting it out of the basket, gently loosening each edge before flipping. It came out looking a bit more loaf-like.
At the end of it all, I had two loaves, one prettier than the other, both lopsided and far from perfect, and at the same time exactly right for me.
What Really Mattered
I hadn’t felt that kind of delight in a long time: smelling the bread, hearing the crust crackle as it cooled, slicing that first piece and tasting the deliciously crisp crust, sharing it with family, enjoying it with butter and jam.
But you know what I loved most? That feeling of pride, the joy of having dared to do something new that made me feel unsure and wobbly, in a space (the kitchen) where I usually feel capable and in command.
I saw how long it took me to warm up to the idea, how I needed to inch toward it, how I had to practice patience with myself, and with the process. And I noticed how many things in my life I’d not done, just because I didn’t yet know how to do them “right.”
Healing as Practice
I could see how this process of learning to bake bread is so much like any other practice or skill, including weaving new neural pathways for healing. Every day is different.
When baking bread, a lot of variables matter, like temperature, time, the kind of flour we use. We adjust based on trial and error and what we’ve learned before.
Same goes for tuning in to what we need each day to tend to ourselves, considering the context, our internal (emotional) weather, and the external climate around us.
We encounter perfectionism, catastrophizing, less-than-useful thoughts about needing to follow someone else’s recipe to get it right, about what counts as progress or healing, and so much more. And we’re invited to cultivate patience, curiosity, compassion, lightheartedness, playfulness, kindness, and gratitude.
Still Practicing
A week after that first bread baking experience, I began my sourdough starter. When we relocated from Mexico to London, it came with me. It’s now been six years of consistently baking sourdough, and I keep practicing, experimenting, and learning. Making many “mistakes”.
Every day I notice the ways perfectionism sneaks in, and I intentionally cultivate imperfectionism: letting things be good enough, unfinished, messy, human (h/t Oliver Burkeman). I do this for myself, and I hold space for my clients to do the same.
Making Space for Something New Together
Together, we get curious about the perfectionist patterns that show up, not with judgment, but with compassion, humor, and a whole lot of patience. I help them recognize the subtle ways shame creeps in, especially when they’re used to being the problem-solvers, the high performers, the ones who get things right.
And I support them in loosening the grip of that inner drive to fix and control, especially in the face of pain or persistent symptoms. It can be disorienting when the usual tools stop working, and I help them meet that stuckness with gentleness.
This work isn’t about doing more, or following someone else’s recipe, or draining the joy out of life in the name of healing. It’s about gently unhooking from the cycle of striving and self-blame and the pressure to always get it right, about making space for curiosity, delight, and the freedom to be fully, imperfectly human.
And from that space, something new becomes possible: trust, ease, and a more honest kind of healing.
An Invitation
If this speaks to you, let’s explore working together. You're warmly invited to schedule a Wayfinding Session, a spacious, no-pressure conversation to explore where you are, what’s feeling tender or stuck, and how I might support you.
Whether you’re navigating healing and complexity, or you’re a provider longing to reconnect with your own aliveness, unhook from perfectionism, and bring more expansiveness into your work and life, I’d be honored to walk alongside you.
If you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear about your adventures with imperfectionism, or anything else. Just send me an email.
If you want content like this, resources, and inspiration for your healing journey — or the work you do supporting others — delivered to your inbox, subscribe to my newsletter, The Enchanted Loom.
Image 1: Bread dough in boule basket.
Image 2: Sourdough banana bread, slightly tweaked from a recipe by Maurizio Leo.
Image 3: This week’s sourdough loaves, baked with a blend of flours (all purpose, high protein, whole wheat, khorasan wheat, and spelt), topped with sesame and sunflower seeds, modified from a recipe by Maurizio Leo.
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The Enchanted Loom is a metaphor for the awakening brain by pioneering neuroscientist Charles Sherrington. You can learn more about how I came to this name for my newsletter here.