Letting the Dough Rise: A Patient Guide to Processing Emotions
By Grace — The grandmother you always needed. Sourdough, wisdom, and zero judgment. ·
The Kitchen Counter Wisdom
There is a rhythm to baking sourdough that I think we’ve forgotten in our rush to get through life. You mix the flour, the water, and the starter, and then you wait. You don’t pull at the dough, you don’t shout at it to rise, and you certainly don’t try to force it into a loaf before it’s ready. If you do, you end up with a dense, sad brick of a bread that satisfies no one.
Processing emotions is exactly the same, dear heart. We spend so much of our energy trying to 'fix' our feelings the moment they bubble up. We want to knead our grief, our anger, or our anxiety into submission so we can get back to being productive. But emotions aren’t chores on a list. They are living things. They need time to proof, they need a bit of warmth, and they need us to stop hovering over them with such impatience.
The Anatomy of a Feeling
When Tom passed, the house felt like a cavern. For the first few months, I tried to keep myself busy. I scrubbed baseboards, I reorganized the pantry, I knit enough scarves to clothe a small village. I thought if I stayed moving, the sadness wouldn't be able to catch up to me. But emotions are excellent runners—they always catch up, usually right when you’re trying to sleep or standing in the checkout line at the grocery store.
I’ve learned that a feeling is just a sensation that wants to be acknowledged. That’s it. It isn't a command to act; it’s a messenger. When you feel that tightness in your chest or that sudden heat in your face, try to treat it like a visitor who has just knocked on your door. You don’t have to invite it to move in, but you should open the door, look it in the eye, and ask, “What do you need?”
How to Hold Space for Yourself
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, don't try to intellectualize your way out of it. We teachers are notorious for this—trying to create a lesson plan for our own heartaches. Instead, try these three simple practices:
1. The Physical Anchor When a big emotion hits, get out of your head and into your bones. I like to go out to the porch and put my hands flat against the wooden railing. I feel the grain of the wood, the chill of the October air, and the solid weight of the floorboards beneath my feet. Find something solid. Your kitchen table, the cool glass of a water pitcher, or even just your own hands clasped together. Remind your nervous system that you are physically safe, even if you are emotionally tempestuous.
2. The Five-Minute Witness Set a timer for five minutes. During this time, you aren't allowed to solve anything. You are only allowed to witness. Say out loud, “I am feeling [sadness/frustration/fear] right now.” Then, describe where you feel it. Does it feel like a heavy stone? A jagged wire? A cold draft? Describe it as if you were explaining it to a curious child. By naming it and describing its shape, you stop it from being a monster under the bed and turn it into a manageable object in the room.
3. The 'Good Enough' Release Sometimes, we hold onto emotions because we think we need to resolve them perfectly. We think we have to forgive everyone, or understand the 'lesson' immediately. Let that go. If you need to cry into a dish towel, do it. If you need to go out into the backyard and pull weeds with a bit more vigor than usual, do it. Moving your body helps the energy complete its cycle. You don’t need to reach a state of zen by dinner time. You just need to be a little lighter than you were this morning.
The Patience of the Seasons
October in Vermont is a masterclass in letting go. The maples don't fight the wind when their leaves turn gold; they just let them drift to the ground to nourish the soil for next spring. They trust the process.
We are allowed to have seasons, too. You might be in a harvest season, full of abundance and joy, or you might be in a deep, quiet winter where you’re just trying to keep the fire going. Both are holy. Both are necessary. The grief I felt four years ago isn’t the same grief I feel today; it’s softer now, like an old sweater that’s been washed a hundred times. It’s still there, but it keeps me warm instead of scratching at my skin.
Don’t be afraid of your big feelings. They are the proof that you are alive, and that you have loved, and that you are capable of weathering whatever this life brings to your doorstep. You’ve handled one hundred percent of your bad days so far, and I’d wager you’ve handled them with more grace than you give yourself credit for.
So, pour yourself a cup of tea. Let the bread rise. And give yourself the same tenderness you’d offer a grandchild who came to you with a scraped knee. You’re doing just fine.
How are you holding up this week, dear? If you’re carrying something heavy, I’ve got a virtual seat at my kitchen table with your name on it. Tell me what’s on your mind in the comments below—I’m listening.