Kneading Dough, Missing Mom: Channeling Her Energy Through My Sourdough Mother's Connection

There’s a quiet magic in making sourdough—something slow, steady, and deeply grounding. It’s in the way you mix, wait, fold, and wait again. And somewhere between the rise and rest, I feel my mother.

My sourdough starter—what many lovingly call the mother—has become more than fermented flour and water. It’s become a way to connect. To grieve. To heal. And, perhaps most unexpectedly, to channel my mom’s energy in a way I never anticipated when I first began growing it.

The Slow Ritual of Connection

Patience isn’t something that comes easily to everyone. But my mom had it in spades. She had that quiet kind of strength—the kind that showed up in simmering stews, hand-sewn hems, and soft-spoken wisdom passed around the kitchen table. She believed in effort. In care. In watching things grow.

Sourdough is built on that same energy. You feed your starter, day by day. You learn its rhythm. You respond to it. You care for it. It becomes something alive—just like the lessons our moms leave us with.

When I stir my dough or flour my hands, I feel like I’m reaching for her.

The Sourdough Mother

A sourdough mother—what many bakers call the starter—is a beautiful metaphor. You nurture her. She gives life to everything that follows. And she’s passed down, shared, remembered.

My sourdough mother didn’t come from a bakery or a professional kitchen. She started here, at home. And every bubble, every rise, feels like a pulse. A connection to something older, wiser, and still very much with me.

I often think of my mom when I’m kneading. It’s a form of prayer, really. A conversation. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I just breathe—and let the rhythm of the dough bring me peace.

Baking as Grief, Growth, and Gratitude

Grief doesn’t always show up as sadness. Sometimes it arrives as silence. Or as a crust you don’t want to break. Or as a memory sparked by the smell of warm bread in the oven.

When I bake, I think of the things we didn’t get to say. The things I still want to share. I think of her hands, her laugh, the food she made that brought people together. And I let that energy move through me into the dough.

It’s not perfect. Neither was she. Neither am I. But it’s real. And that’s enough.

The Lessons She Left in My Loaves

My mom taught me things I didn’t realize I’d ever use. Things like:

• Patience is power.

• You don’t have to speak to be present.

• The best things in life need time to rise.

And most of all: Love can be baked into anything.

When I feel stuck, or the starter seems sluggish, or the dough won’t come together just right—I hear her voice reminding me that growth takes time, and that sometimes the most beautiful things happen when you don’t rush them. With sourdough, I've never felt more at home than when I'm kneading the dough, channeling my mother, and re-establishing the connection of life lessons she taught me over her too-few years, missing mom a little less.

Letting Her Energy Rise With the Dough - Missing Mom, A Connection through Kneading Sourdough

There’s a sacred stillness in baking. And within it, there’s space to feel—to miss, to remember, to celebrate. Whether it’s called a starter or a mother, that bubbling jar on my counter reminds me I’m still growing. Still connected. Still kneading love into every loaf.

Each time I bake, I’m not just making bread.

I’m channeling her energy, one turn, one fold, one rise at a time.

Artisan Sourdough Loaf Shaping