I come from a long line of bakers.
My grandmother—or Nana Brown, as we called her—made yeast rolls and a 7UP cake so legendary that, to this day, no one in the family has been able to replicate her magic. Whatever she did in that kitchen, it was sacred.
My grandfather was a baker, too. After serving as a cook in the U.S. Navy during World War II, he made fresh croissants at the Los Angeles Farmers Market, always bringing the leftovers home to Nana and me. And even my father baked—though his methods were different. He was resourceful, turning whatever he had into something delicious. A store-bought cake mix? That was a birthday waiting to happen. Leftover donuts from the grocery store? Bread pudding. And let me tell you, donut bread pudding is a sugar spike I wouldn’t recommend—but my God, was it good.
Baking has always felt like home to me. It’s what the people I loved did.
Stepping Into My Own Baking Journey
Even though I’ve always loved baking, I was intimidated by bread—especially sourdough. It seemed complicated. The starter alone felt like a science experiment. Is it rising? Did I feed it enough? Is my ratio right? Just flour and water—how could something so simple feel so uncertain?
But I started anyway. And now, almost a year later, my starter, Betty—named after my paternal grandmother—is still going strong. She’s been my constant companion on this journey, teaching me patience and process.
When You Skip Steps, You Still Get Bread… But Not What Was Meant For You
I’ve baked many loaves over the past year, and every single one taught me something.
Some were beautiful but too moist because I didn’t let them bake long enough. Others were flat because I didn’t stretch and fold the dough. Some lacked flavor because I rushed the fermentation. But here’s the thing—no matter how many shortcuts I took, I still got bread.
It was always edible. And most of the time, really good.
There was never a loaf we didn’t eat. Flawed or not, they were all worth savoring—because butter and fig chili jam make everything better.
But it wasn’t what it was meant to be.
This time, I followed the process. Every step. I used a bubbly, active starter instead of Betty straight from the fridge. I shaped the dough with care, building tension so it would rise high. I let it ferment overnight, giving it time to develop flavor. I didn’t rush the proofing, and I controlled my oven’s heat to prevent burning. I used dark rye flour with my unbleached organic flour for depth and richness.
But even with all that, I had to adjust. My Silestone counter stayed cold, slowing the warming process. The house was cool, and my dough wasn’t coming to room temperature the way it needed to. So I adapted. I placed her in the oven with the light on, creating the right conditions for her to rise.
Because sometimes, even when you do everything right, the environment still isn’t working for you. And when that happens, you don’t give up—you adjust.
And the result?
A loaf that rose beautifully. A crust that crackled. A taste that was complex, tangy, and deep. This time, I didn’t just get bread. I got what was intended.
The Lesson in the Loaf: The Myth of Overnight Success
We live in a viral culture where people expect instant results. They see a person thriving and assume it just happened—like success popped out of an oven fully formed.
But that’s not how mastery works.
What looks effortless now took years of trial, error, discipline, and refinement. And sourdough? Sourdough is that lesson in edible form. You can’t fake fermentation. You can’t rush the rise. You either submit to the process, or you get a result that’s flat, underdeveloped, and lacking depth.
And sometimes, the world isn’t ready for what you’ve created.
Just ask Shuggie Otis.
In 1974, at just 21 years old, he released Inspiration Information, a genre-blending album that should have been a breakthrough. But it barely made a ripple. The world wasn’t ready. No follow-up albums. No fame. Just silence.
And then—almost 40 years later—a younger generation discovered it, and suddenly, it was a masterpiece. A lost classic. NPR called it “a record that deserves to be rediscovered every decade or so.” The album was reissued, critics raved, and Shuggie—once forgotten—found himself touring the world, finally receiving the success that had eluded him.
Because timing is everything.
And let’s talk about Saturn, because she’s teaching me the same thing. Saturn doesn’t reward shortcuts. She’s the teacher of patience, discipline, and mastery over time. She doesn’t just hand you what you want—she asks, Did you do the work? Did you learn the lesson?
If the answer is yes, she gives you what was meant for you.
If not, she sends you back to the beginning.
And that’s exactly what sourdough does.
This time, I followed the process. I didn’t rush it. I honored the steps.
And I got a loaf that rose like it was meant to.
And that’s exactly what sourdough does.
This time, I followed the process. I didn’t rush it. I honored the steps. And I got a loaf that rose like it was meant to.
The waiting stretches you. The process humbles you. The not knowing will test every ounce of your patience.
But then—the rise comes.
Because the rise always comes—when the time is right.
The Takeaway
The process is the process. You can fight it, you can shortcut it, and you’ll still get something.
But when you trust it, when you commit to doing it right, that’s when you get what was truly meant for you.
This loaf was worth the wait.
And so is everything else I’m working toward.
Lisa N. Alexander is the author and founder of This Woman Knows and What Million-Dollar Brands Know. She is an award-winning filmmaker, director, producer, and writer and is the owner of PrettyWork Creative.
