Bread making, creativity, and pursuing our goals and dreams

Photo by Roman Odintsov

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about bread dough. Specifically, about what happens when you stop touching it.

When you’re making bread, you mix, knead, stretch, and fold. You give it structure. You add all the right ingredients in just the right amounts. And then… you wait. You step back. You cover the bowl and let the yeast do its work quietly, invisibly, beneath the surface.

Lately, I’ve realized my novel-in-progress is a lot like that bowl of dough.

After months of shaping and kneading and trying to make it all hold together to finish the draft, I’ve stepped away for a few weeks. I used to feel uneasy about that pause—like I should be doing more, like the story might “deflate” if I didn’t keep working it. But then I remembered: letting the dough rise is part of the recipe.

It’s the same with creative work as well as other big, meaningful goals.

Let the dough rise

When we give something space, we’re not abandoning it. We’re allowing the unseen processes to unfold. The ideas we’ve planted start to ferment in the background. Our subconscious keeps turning them over, developing flavor and texture.

During this time, I’ve been listening to writing podcasts, reading about revision, and jotting down thoughts as they bubble up. But mostly, I’m trusting that stepping back will give me the perspective I need when I return to the page.

The same principle applies beyond writing. Maybe you’ve set an intention for a new direction in your work or your life. You’ve mixed in your hopes, your planning, your early efforts. Now you’re in that weird in-between stage where it doesn’t look like much is happening.

But it is. Just because you can’t see the rise yet doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

Trusting the process

There’s a fine balance between effort and patience. Bread dough won’t rise faster if you keep poking at it, and sometimes neither will our creative projects or life goals. When we learn to trust that resting period, to let the air and energy circulate naturally, we set ourselves up for a better outcome.

And when the time is right to begin again, we return with new clarity and enthusiasm. The dough has developed strength. The flavor has deepened. And we can shape it into something that finally feels ready to share.

Sourdough wisdom

Anyone who’s worked with sourdough knows: you don’t start from scratch every time. You keep a “starter”—a living culture that you feed and care for, even when you’re not baking.

That, too, feels like the heart of the creative process. Even when you’re not actively writing, building, or creating, you’re still tending the starter. You’re feeding your curiosity, paying attention, noticing what stirs your imagination.

So if you find yourself between drafts, between goals, between what was and what’s next, remember: this is part of it. The rise is happening, quietly, right beneath the surface.

Set a timer, reminder, or accountability check-in with a friend or coach, so you know you won’t forget about it. Then trust the “dough.” Trust the timing.

… Is anyone else suddenly hungry? :)