My sourdough journey began in 2020—like it did for a lot of people. At the time, I was living on Long Island. The world had basically shut down, and I was a new mom with a one-year-old, trying to figure out what to do with our long, quiet days.

I kept seeing people on social media talking about baking sourdough. It looked like a cozy, comforting hobby—and I needed something. So I gave it a try. Let’s just say: I wasn’t very good at it.

But I kept going.

For most of 2020 and into 2021, I tried again and again. And then… we moved from New York to Florida. My starter didn’t survive the trip. I didn’t know then how sensitive wild yeast could be.

Still, once we arrived, I picked it up again. My bakes got a little better. But we didn’t stay long—Florida wasn’t the place for us. We wanted somewhere we could plant roots and raise our family, so we moved to North Carolina. And once again… my starter died. (Transporting it was clearly not my strong suit.)

If you are transporting your starter click here to read my guide on traveling with wild yeast companions

We settled in, and soon after, I found out I was pregnant with my second. I remembered how much I’d struggled after my first was born. I knew I needed a grounding hobby, something creative, something mine. So I turned—again—to sourdough.

I started a new culture. I cared for it daily, I baked constantly, and I read everything I could find. I still wasn’t seeing perfect loaves, but something inside me clicked. This time felt different.

That’s when I started my Instagram account.

I wanted to learn more, connect with other bakers, and share my journey. And through that, I found community in those who supported me, helped me learn, and encourage and share my wacky ideas. Around that time, we also decided to start using natural food coloring in our home. I had a toddler who loved colorful food but wasn’t always into the healthy stuff, so I wondered—could I use color to make bread more appealing?

I ordered a bag of purple sweet potato powder and added 10 grams to a loaf. The result? A bright, vivid purple. Beautiful—but too purple for my daughter. So I dialed it back. That next loaf came out pink. It was the first time I felt truly connected to my sourdough.

And I thought, What else can I do with this?

I began experimenting with different powders, different amounts, layering colors. I’d seen people do marbling, but I couldn’t find anything about how, so I got to thinking. Until one night, just as I was falling asleep, the idea came to me: what if I added color during the coil folds?

The next morning, I had dough going. I sprinkled pigment across the surface during the folds and hoped for the best.

It worked.

From there, I refined my method—adjusting folds, color placement, hydration. I figured out how to create the swirls I had imagined. And that’s where my love for using natural color truly began.

Now, painting bread might seem like a leap. But for me, it wasn’t. I’ve always been a painter. As a child, as a college student, and later as a makeup artist—I painted faces. So when I realized I could safely paint on bread using natural food coloring rather than the gel food colorings, something clicked. I began to think about how all paint starts out as powder pigment, and how maybe if I just added water I could make edible “watercolors”

Note: I never use paint brushes or tools that have touched art supplies or synthetic pigments. Food safety is always the priority. Everything I use to paint is food-safe and dedicated to kitchen use only.

There’s something about painting on bread that feels different than any other canvas. Maybe it’s the fleeting nature—this thing you’ve poured your heart into will be gone tomorrow. Or maybe it’s because it nourishes people, body and soul. That felt powerful.

In 2024, my friends and I were hosting the Colorful Crumb challenge. I had a few loaves in the queue and a bunch of colors, and on a whim, I decided to try painting the outside.

I had seen people paint with white food coloring or synthetic gels, but I wanted something different. Something soft. I scored a loaf inspired by a wildflower bouquet, and another loaf that meant even more to me.

It was around a time of year when grief tends to visit. I had recently been thinking of my uncle, who passed too young. I scored Mount Rainier onto that loaf, a mountain close to my heart, and baked it with no plans to paint it. But when I pulled it from the oven and saw how beautiful it was, I remembered our last trip together—how he showed us Reflection Lakes.

I was flooded with emotion. I placed the loaf on a vintage mirror and began to paint. And with every brushstroke, I cried.

It was the most healing experience I’ve ever had with bread. I put something painful and sacred into something beautiful.

And that changed everything.

Since then, I’ve been painting sourdough ever since—sometimes with complex illustrations, sometimes with just a touch of color. I never thought I’d be showing people my art. I never even considered myself an artist, not really. I hid my work for years. But something about sourdough made me brave.

It helped me let go of perfection. If a loaf doesn’t come out right, you eat it. You try again. You learn. That simple truth unraveled so many years of perfectionism in me.

There were so many flops in the beginning. Flat loaves. Gummy crumb. Starters that wouldn’t rise. It would’ve been easy to quit. But something about the process—the ritual, the waiting, the quiet—kept calling me back. It felt like a conversation with myself.

When I was little, someone once asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up. I said, “I just want to make things that make people smile.”

And somehow, painting bread has become the way I do that. It’s how I heal, how I create, how I connect. If you’re still reading—thank you. I hope my story made you smile. And if you feel inspired or curious, reach out. Let’s talk. Let’s bake something beautiful.

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Comment below. Share it with a fellow creative. And if you want to learn how to paint your own sourdough, I’d love to hear from you—just message me on Instagram or TikTok, or shoot me an email. Let’s make some edible magic together.