The Art of Baking Bread.

and the decision to stop writing on social media.

I will preface everything I am about to say with this: I am not a baker.

I can cook, yes. Following a recipe and making adjustments or substitutions as needed—I’ve got that figured out, for the most part. What I don’t know I typically google. I have my go-to recipes that I’ve made a million times and I’m confident that they’ll turn out well each time.

It’s the repetition that makes the difference.

//

Do you remember the year where the world was turned upside down with a global pandemic and the entire country was either watching Tiger King or making sourdough from scratch?

I fell into the Tiger King camp; I was fascinated by this zookeeping world I didn’t know existed.

I was too intimidated to make sourdough, so I made a lot of banana bread instead.

//

I don’t like baking, which is kind of ironic, because I love operating. I haven’t operated in many years, ever since I first moved across the country. I changed medical specialties and haven’t picked up a scalpel since. A part of my heart hurts to write that, but here I am, slicing with a proverbial pen instead. Interestingly, I think you can do more damage with a pen, but I digress.

Baking and operating require precision, accuracy, and patience.

I can toss ingredients and measure more loosely when it comes to cooking. Baking requires me to level my flour and to have patience for the dough to rise.

//

I will preface everything I am about to say with this: I am not a professional writer.

I have been consistently writing for almost three years. “Consistent” meaning I write my monthly-ish newsletter, sometimes post on social media, and have occasionally been published by other websites. I have recently started to write more on Substack, where you are currently reading. I write a lot in private, too—my Google docs folder is a mess full of half-finished chapters, essays, and article ideas—and 50% of a Christian non-fiction manuscript, along with its book proposal.

A book proposal that has been rejected by literary agents six or seven times. I quit counting after I filled a whole-hand of rejections.

Your platform is too small, is what I hear over and over and over. You’re a talented writer, one in particular said in earnest, but your numbers just aren’t there.

I once defined my self-worth by the number I saw on the scale; now I struggle to not do the same with these numbers. Interestingly, whereas before I wanted the numbers to shrink, now I want the numbers to grow. These new numbers hurt more, which I didn’t think was possible. As I see my small email list and my even smaller social media following, the devil whispers, see, no one wants to read what you have to write anyway.

//

Our squadron spouses’ group had a bread-making event recently. My friend taught us how to make her infamous rustic bread from scratch; I couldn’t believe how easy it was to make. We made the dough at her house, then we each took our bowl of dough home to rise and bake the next day. I followed the instructions carefully and proudly snapped a photo of my perfect loaf of bread.

A few weeks later, I attempted to make two loaves, and again followed the instructions carefully. You can imagine my surprise, and disappointment, when both loaves came out of the oven as flat as pancakes.

//

I start doing all the things to grow my numbers, like every literary agent has told me to do. Post more consistently on social media. Garnish followers. Grow your email list. Create lead magnets. Run ads to attract attention to said lead magnets. Film yourself talking on your Instagram stories. Be relatable. Do reels. Have catchy phrases. Track your likes, follows, shares. Chase the algorithm. Look at what other successful accounts are doing and try to mimic them.

I ran in circles doing these things; quite literally running around trying to do it all in-between real life of changing diapers, nursing, building blocks, reading books to my toddler, making dinner, cleaning, and laundry.

My numbers started to improve, but my soul did not. I felt depleted, spent, and like I was failing where it really mattered.

//

I talked to my friend about my flat bread loaves. We dissected my bread–baking steps. I think you over-kneaded it, she said, this recipe is pretty simple where it doesn’t require a lot of extra work.

Yeah, I was probably trying too hard, I joked.

The next day, I started the bread-making process again, making sure to not knead too much.

The day after, I opened the oven to another flat-as-a-pancake loaf.

//

I dislike social media. I don’t enjoy posting there. I don’t enjoy creating content that fits into a perfect little square, or rectangle, now that the algorithm changed again. My writing is too long and too messy for it to be tidied up in a bow on a pretty share-able image, with the hopes that this post might be the one to go viral and I’ll get the numbers needed to attract a literary agent.

I studied medicine for five years and practiced clinically for ten. I stay up-to-date with my continuing medical education and will often read medical articles for fun.

Do you know what the goal of a virus is?

The goal of a virus is to replicate itself and kill the host that it is living in.

Thankfully, humans are usually pretty resilient and we have an amazing immune system that can destroy the virus before it destroys us.

All of that to say, it makes me pause when I think about going viral or being viral, especially on a platform that does more harm than good.

//

I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, I keep repeating to my husband over and over. I followed the instructions, I did everything right.

We discuss my bread-making woes, and at one point, he tells me I don’t have to keep making loaves back-to-back-to-back; I can take a break.

I’m not ready to give up just yet, I respond.

I tell him that I’m going to my friend’s house for an emergency bread-making tutorial.

I start pulling out the ingredients to make another loaf. I glance at the yeast packet and realize it’s the wrong kind of yeast… and expired by approximately 5 years, during which that yeast packet has trekked three cross-country moves in multiple climates and sat in multiple storage units across the country, courtesy of the military.

I think I figured out the problem, I texted my friend.

//

I felt a nudging to set social media aside and to focus on just writing what’s on my heart. Not to chase a number or to try to outsmart an algorithm, but just to write and share because I feel that’s what the Lord has asked of me.

He didn’t ask me to play the social media game. He asks for obedience in the next step. The outcome is in His hands, not mine.

I’m just here to serve and do my best with the tool I have in my hand; once it was a scalpel, now it’s a pen.

I saw medical miracles happen with my scalpel—stories that still bring goosebumps and tears to my eyes.

I know if the Lord wants to, He can do the same with my pen.

//

I show up with my bowl of flour and herbs; my friend has a fresh—and correct—yeast packet waiting.

We measure the yeast, whisk it into the bowl, and add some water. She watches me gently knead the dough.

Later, I snap and send a picture to her of how much the dough has already risen in a short amount of time.

It’s amazing what happens when you use the correct ingredients, I joke.

//

The next day, I peek at my dough after it spent twenty-two hours proving. I send another picture to my friend.

It looks good, she responds.

I let the dough rise under a dishcloth for another two hours before placing it in the oven.

//

I don’t have a book deal, nor do I have a literary agent. My numbers are still small compared to the ever-moving goalposts.

But the dough is still baking, and it smells pretty good.

I think the growth in the process is more important than the outcome, anyway.

Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.

Psalm 34:8 NIV (emphasis added)