Sourdough + Starting Over

There’s something magical about a new beginning—especially one you choose with your whole heart.

After six years of apartment living and decades rooted in Washington state, I’ve decided to come home. Not just metaphorically. I’m moving to the country, to Alabama. To land. To slowness. To the smell of bread in the oven and cows in the pasture. After 21 years away from my Southern roots, I’m back—ready to plant myself differently this time.

And somehow, sourdough has become the symbol of it all.

It sounds simple: flour, water, salt. But if you’ve ever tried to start a sourdough routine, you know—it’s a relationship. A rhythm. It asks for attention and patience. And in return, it offers comfort, nourishment, and the smell of something becoming whole.

That’s what this move feels like.

It’s the first time in my life I’ll live in the country. I imagine the view from our picture window—the baby cows in the pasture, the mountains layered behind them. I imagine myself in the kitchen, apron dusted in flour, checking the starter, folding the dough, learning the temperature of this new oven and this new life.

There’s something incredibly hopeful about all of it.

My boyfriend—my person—he sees it, too. He told me he can already picture it: me in that kitchen, bread rising, music playing, our furniture projects scattered across the garage, ideas for podcast episodes being tossed around over coffee. We found each other in this chapter, after raising our kids, after some heartbreak, after some hard-earned growth. Now, we get to build something—on our own terms.

Sourdough will be part of our ritual. A way to mark time. To ground ourselves. To say, this is home now.

We move soon. I don’t have my starter bubbling yet, but I’m gathering jars. I’m reading. I’m ready. There’s a beautiful comfort in the idea that bread rises, even after everything. That from simple ingredients and care, something new and strong and nourishing can emerge.

Just like us.