Selling Bread to Strangers Was Weirdly Healing

It wasn’t a pop-up shop or a big launch. It wasn’t even planned. I just showed up with bread—warm, crusty, fresh from the oven—and handed it to strangers. And something cracked open inside me in the best way.

There’s a certain vulnerability in offering something you’ve made by hand. Especially bread. It takes time. Attention. A piece of your day and heart. You’re not just selling a product. You’re sharing a part of yourself.

And when people receive that with excitement? With gratitude? With joy?

Something in you softens.

No Orders. Just Presence.

This wasn’t a structured drop. No forms to fill out, no pick-up windows. Just me, my loaves, and whoever happened to be around. And that made it even more powerful.

There was no expectation. No pressure. Just curiosity—and connection.

People asked questions. They tore off hunks of bread right there. They told me stories about their own baking attempts, their favorite childhood meals, what they’d pair my loaves with. Suddenly, it wasn’t just bread. It was a conversation starter. A memory trigger. A bridge.

Bread as a Love Language

Baking has always been therapeutic for me. The folding, the proofing, the quiet rise. It gives my busy brain something to focus on. It feels like control in a world that often spins too fast.

But I didn’t realize how seen I’d feel when someone bit into a jalapeño cheddar mini loaf and said, “This is amazing.” I didn’t know how much I needed that exchange—something so simple and wordless—to remind me that what I do matters.

Not for the money. Not for the likes. But because someone out there genuinely enjoyed something I created. And maybe felt a little warmth they didn’t know they were missing.

A Tiny Transaction, A Huge Shift

I made $45. Not exactly a fortune. But what I gained emotionally was priceless.

I gave away loaves too—bread bowls, a classic loaf—just because it felt good to share. Because I wanted people to taste what I’d been pouring myself into. And the way they lit up made me feel rich in a way that had nothing to do with cash.

The Healing Part

Here’s the truth: I didn’t realize how starved I was for this kind of interaction. For validation that wasn’t forced. For connection that didn’t drain me. For being appreciated for something I love doing, without explanation or performance.

I’ve spent so much of my life navigating complicated relationships, masking my emotions, and working through grief. But standing there with my bread, I didn’t feel complicated. I felt proud. Present. Human.

Sometimes healing doesn’t come through therapy or journaling. Sometimes it comes through flour, fire, and a stranger saying, “This is so good.”

This is just the beginning of something beautiful. I don’t know exactly what STUpendous Sourdough will become—but I know this:

People want my bread. And I want to keep giving it.

A bit messy, but full of bold character

Even if it’s a little messy. Even if I don’t have it all figured out. Even if I’m still healing.

Because every loaf I bake carries a little bit of that healing with it.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real recipe.