A Recipe for Reconnection
It’s been a long time coming. I never realized how much I took the simple act of baking for granted until I could no longer do it. After my accident, I lost the confidence and independence I once had, disconnecting me from parts of myself I once cherished. Baking was one of those things. It wasn’t just about following a recipe; it was therapy, a creative outlet, and a way to feel grounded in the rhythm of life. From measuring ingredients to watching the dough rise, there was something almost magical about it all. But after the accident, even the thought of returning to the kitchen felt overwhelming.
Stepping back into the kitchen today brought a rush of anxiety. I found myself asking: Will I be able to follow the recipe without getting confused? Will I drop things? Most importantly, will I forgive myself if I stumble, or will I get frustrated over a shortcoming that shouldn’t even be mine? As I laid out the ingredients, memories flooded back—how much care I used to put into each step, the joy of sharing what I made with others. That spark of inspiration quickly returned.
Baking, at its core, is about intention. Coincidentally, intention is my word for 2025. Right now, I’m striving to live intentionally—whether in my relationships, choices, or daily tasks. Why? Because it keeps me grounded and reminds me of what truly matters. It feeds my soul. Creating something in the kitchen today allowed me to align my physical actions with the mental practices I’ve been nurturing over the past year and a half. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was reconnecting with an older version of myself—one I thought I had lost.
Growing up, I spent countless hours baking with my Italian grandmother, who was always cooking and baking. I loved getting my hands messy, the dough sticking between my fingers, and the conversations that unfolded in the kitchen. Food, to me, was a bridge to connection. As I got older, I returned to baking to reconnect with those cherished memories. It became a form of self-care. But in recent years, fear and self-doubt began to get in the way. I had to confront those hesitations head-on.
It was emotionally difficult when I stumbled over instructions or felt shaky while measuring ingredients. But I reminded myself that these frustrations were simply grief manifesting, and I refused to let them stop me. I also made sure to give myself permission to breathe, take breaks, or sit down when needed. One important lesson I’ve learned on this journey is that with the right support and accommodations, I can still accomplish just as much as I did before my accident.
Reconnecting with myself through grief has brought up so many emotions. I feel the fear of not being able to accomplish things the way I used to, which can bring deep sadness, but I also feel an immense sense of gratitude. Even if it’s not the way I used to do things, I can still do them—with a little help and self-compassion. And that’s HUGE.
Baking is a reminder of the simple, tactile joys I once took for granted. The feel of flour between my fingers, the rhythm of stirring, and the anticipation of watching something transform before my eyes. These small moments were lost in the chaos of recovery, but today they returned, grounding me in the present and reminding me that life’s simplest pleasures still hold the most meaning.
The steps in baking—mixing, waiting, rising, baking—mirror my journey of recovery. Mixing represents the beginning, when everything feels chaotic and uncertain. Waiting is like the difficult pause during healing, when it feels like nothing is happening. Rising symbolizes growth, progress, and hope—when the work we put in begins to show results. Finally, baking is the culmination, the moment of transformation, when everything comes together into something beautiful—even if the process is messy.
