Here is the thing.
Some hobbies are a full contact sport before you ever start them.
If you have ADHD, you probably know the pattern. You discover something new. You research every detail. You buy all the tools. You organize all the tools. You picture the future version of yourself who “does this all the time.”
And then sometimes the hobby lives its best life in a labeled bin in the garage.
My husband was convinced that sourdough was going to follow that pattern.
The jars. The baskets. The lame. The special flour. The TikTok tutorials. He was fully prepared for this to be another beautifully staged, rarely used setup.
Except this one stuck.
Somewhere between feeding the starter and pulling that first loaf out of the oven, sourdough quietly moved from “project” to “practice.”
There is something funny about an ADHD brain falling in love with sourdough. Sourdough asks for patience, planning, and repetition. My brain prefers urgency, novelty, and a little chaos for flavor. On paper, this should not work.
But there is a rhythm to it that actually helps my brain slow down.
Stirring the starter. Watching for bubbles. Mixing the dough. Folding, resting, folding again. It is just structured enough to feel grounding and just creative enough to stay interesting.
And in the middle of travel, meetings, and a very full life, there is something deeply satisfying about creating one simple, tangible thing that did not exist that morning.
Plus, warm bread. I am only human.
For those who are already wondering about the recipe, my go to base is simple:
125 grams of starter, 350 grams of water, 525 grams of flour, and 10 grams of salt.
That is the foundation. From there, it is mix, rest, fold, shape, proof, bake. Nothing fancy. No secret family step. Just showing up for the dough over time.
That alone feels like a leadership lesson in disguise. Most of the magic happens in the quiet, unglamorous parts of the process.
Where it really gets fun, especially around the holidays, is what happens after you trust the base recipe. That is when you start making it your own.
For me, that looks like inclusions. Little twists that turn one simple loaf into something that tastes like a memory.
Caramel apple has become a favorite. Small diced apples, a hint of caramel tucked into the dough, a little cinnamon. It tastes like a trip to the pumpkin patch that somehow made it into a slice of toast.
Pumpkin feels like October and November refusing to leave the party. A bit of pumpkin puree and warm spices, and suddenly breakfast smells like a cozy holiday morning.
Hot cocoa peppermint might be the most unhinged and delightful of the bunch. Cocoa, chocolate, and crushed candy cane. It is basically a mug of hot chocolate that decided it wanted to be sliced and buttered.
Then there is orange cranberry, which tastes like every holiday table I grew up around. Bright orange zest, tart dried cranberries, a little sweetness. It looks as festive as it tastes.
We do not talk about this enough, but sourdough is a pretty accurate metaphor for how many of us with ADHD move through hobbies and life.
We try things. A lot of things.
We buy the tools.
We start with enthusiasm.
Sometimes we fade out.
And then, every once in a while, something lands so deeply that it becomes part of how we move through our days.
For me, sourdough is that right now. It gives me a ritual, a creative outlet, and a way to hand a still-warm loaf to someone and say, “I thought of you.” In a world that lives in email and Zoom, there is something special about a gift that smells like butter and patience.
Let’s be real. There are still abandoned hobbies in my world. There are supplies that never saw their full potential. But sourdough has reminded me that this is not a character flaw. It is simply part of how my brain experiments with what fits.
You are allowed to buy all the things and decide the hobby is not for you.
You are allowed to come back to something later.
You are absolutely allowed to celebrate the ones that stick.
This holiday season, sourdough has become one of my favorite ways to slow down. The dough forces you to pause. To wait. To check in. You cannot rush fermentation, no matter how full your calendar is.
And as those loaves come out of the oven, full of caramel apple or hot cocoa peppermint or orange cranberry, I am reminded of something simple. You do not always need a brand new recipe. Sometimes you simply need a solid base and the courage to add what you love.
In bread.
In leadership.
In life.
So here is my question for you this season:
What are you folding into your “base recipe” that makes your life feel a little more like your own?
Gratefully,