You Don’t Need an Escape, This Is Your Real Life

There was a time, not long ago, when I believed success was something you chased. You know the drill, wake up, drink the coffee, fake the smile, push through the day, lie down, repeat. Maybe one day it would click. Maybe one day I’d feel... something.

But instead of clicking, things cracked.

Not in a dramatic, made-for-Netflix kind of way. Just a slow, steady fade. A hollowing. A creeping sense that although I was doing all the things I was supposed to be doing, I wasn’t really there. I felt detached, like I was watching my life from behind glass. Laughing at the right moments, saying the right things, showing up, doing the work, but not in it.

That’s called depersonalisation, by the way. I didn’t know that back then. All I knew was that it felt like being trapped in a wax figure version of myself.

The Invisible Handbrake

For years, I lived like this. And here’s the weird part, to everyone else, I looked fine. I was fit, I baked bread, I cracked jokes, I hosted dinner parties and gave workshops that left people smiling. But inside, I was always pulling at the reins of something I didn’t understand.

Later, I realised I had been living with undiagnosed OCD for most of my life. Not the “I like my pencils in a row” kind of OCD, but the relentless mental loops, rituals, thought-checking, guilt-tripping kind. I thought it was just me being hyper-responsible. Turns out, I was mentally trying to control the universe, which doesn't work.

OCD wasn’t just a quirk. It was a mechanism. A way to try to keep things safe. But the cruel irony is that it doesn’t make you feel safe. It makes you feel broken. Stuck. Trapped. And the more you feed it, the more it steals your life.

I learned this slowly, and painfully, and then all at once.

The Hip, The Ice, And The Silence

It took a fall, a literal fall, to finally stop running. I slipped on some ice in January and broke my hip. Couldn’t move, couldn’t train, couldn’t distract myself with momentum. All I could do was be.

And that, ironically, was the moment everything started to heal.

Because when you can’t distract yourself, you start to listen. You start to notice what’s actually been going on in your head, and in your heart. And for me, it turned out I didn’t need another strategy or a fix. I needed stillness. I needed breath. I needed flour on my hands and time to stretch and fold and wait.

Which is how The Mindful Baker evolved.

Not in a business meeting, not on a vision board, but in a quiet, messy, healing kitchen.

The Therapy Hidden in Bread

Baking, for me, became the mirror I didn’t know I needed. Dough doesn’t perform. It doesn’t pretend. It reflects. If you’re rushed, it shows. If you’re calm, it breathes. If you’re tense, it resists. If you try to skip steps, it sulks.

It made me realise something: baking isn’t just about making food. It’s about making space.

And that’s when things clicked.

I didn’t need to escape anymore. I needed to arrive.

Bringing It to the World

Today, I run workshops at schools, for families, and anyone who needs a little space to reconnect, with themselves, their kids, their partner, their life.

The kids roll out pizza dough and learn to breathe through frustration. The parents, meanwhile, often realise that “mindfulness” doesn’t mean chanting on a mountain. It means being here, with the people you love, even when the sauce is burning and the dog’s eaten the cheese.

I call the workshops Sizzle & Slice. Because mindfulness shouldn’t be boring.

And if you’ve got kids, you’ll soon be able to meet Benny the Fox, the star of my children’s book series that teaches emotional resilience through stories, baking, and a wise old owl who probably charges by the hour.

We’re also creating flashcards to help families spark conversations about feelings, the kind of questions that go past “How was school?” and into “What do you need right now?”

It’s not about fixing anyone. It’s about creating the space for them to feel.

Why This Matters Now

You don’t need me to tell you the world’s a bit frantic right now. There’s noise everywhere. Pressure to do more, be more, earn more, fix more. And underneath it all, most people I meet are carrying a quiet, aching sense that they’re not fully living their lives.

They’re surviving.

I’ve been there. I get it. And I also know you don’t have to stay there.

The Mindful Baker isn’t just sourdough and cute branding. It’s a doorway. A place to breathe. To connect. To let go of whatever you’ve been holding onto. And to maybe, finally, stop escaping and start living.

So whether you come to a workshop, read a story with your child, use our tools at home, or just sit with this blog for a minute, you’re welcome here.

Let’s make something real. Together.

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