From Pastry Chef to Diaper Duty: How I Relearned the Joy of Baking

Losing My Rhythm

The first time I baked after becoming a mom, I cried over a cracked tart shell. I’d been trying to make a lemon tart during nap time. My daughter was three months old. I hadn’t slept more than two hours at a stretch, and my body still didn’t feel like mine. The crust had slumped in the oven, and I just stood there, holding a whisk and weeping into a bowl of curd.

I wasn’t sad about the tart, not really. I think I was grieving who I used to be. Before diapers and swaddles, I was a pastry chef. I could whip Italian meringue by feel. I’d pipe roses onto wedding cakes like it was nothing. My work was quiet, measured, beautiful. Motherhood was the opposite of all that. Loud. Messy. Constant. And not at all like the quiet calm of my old kitchen.

In those early weeks, I barely stepped into the kitchen except to heat bottles or grab cereal. I kept thinking I’d go back to my old self, back to the version of me that knew every step of pâte sucrée like muscle memory. But every time I tried, something interrupted—crying, laundry, exhaustion. My measuring cups collected dust.

Feeling Like a Stranger in My Own Kitchen

It took me a long time to admit that I didn’t love baking anymore. At least not the way I used to. I felt clumsy. Rushed. I kept messing up simple things — forgetting to chill the dough, burning the bottoms of cookies. I wasn’t that calm, capable chef anymore. I was someone’s mom. And I didn’t know where I fit in the kitchen.

At first, I stopped baking altogether. I told myself it was just a season. That I’d get back to it when things settled down. But the truth is, I was scared. Scared that if I baked and it didn’t feel right, I’d have to face the fact that I’d lost something I loved. I’d spent years perfecting my skills, chasing perfection on plates. And suddenly, I couldn’t even get a batch of brownies to rise.

I remember one night, I tried to make choux pastry after putting the baby down. Halfway through, I realized I’d used salt instead of sugar. I threw the whole thing out. Then I sat on the kitchen floor and cried. Not for the pastries, but because I didn’t recognize the person who’d made them.

A Floury Shift

One morning, when my daughter was about nine months old, she crawled over to a bag of flour I’d left out. She banged on it like a drum, giggling, and a small puff of flour shot into the air. She was covered in it within seconds, laughing like she’d discovered magic. And in that messy moment, something inside me shifted.

She didn’t care about precision or perfect layers. She just saw joy in the flour. I scooped her up, set her in the high chair, and pulled out the butter. No fancy tart shells this time. Just simple chocolate chip cookies. The kind that didn’t require precision or piping bags. I let her watch as I creamed the butter and sugar. Her eyes followed every movement. When the cookies came out warm and golden, I gave her a tiny piece. She squealed.

That was the first moment in a long time where baking felt good again.

Finding Comfort in Cookies

And just like that, I remembered what baking used to be for me. Not the fancy parts — not the accolades or the perfect layers — but the comfort. The warmth. The way a good cookie can make a bad day feel okay again.

Now, I bake with her. She dumps flour all over the counter. I let her stir the batter even though most of it ends up on the floor. Our cookies are lumpy and uneven. And I don’t care. Because baking isn’t about perfection anymore. It’s about connection. It’s about showing my daughter that joy can live in small, sticky moments.

Sometimes we make banana muffins when the bananas on the counter go brown too fast. Other times, it’s cinnamon rolls from store-bought dough because I’m too tired to make my own. But the smell still fills the house. The oven still warms the kitchen. And that’s enough. We sit on the floor and eat a roll together, sticky fingers and all.

Even when I go back to more complicated bakes, I approach them differently now. I don’t fuss if the ganache isn’t shiny or the sponge is a little dense. If she’s next to me, smearing frosting on her cheek and handing me plastic spoons, then the bake was a success.

Our Go-To Cookie Recipe

Soft Chocolate Chip Cookies

Ingredients:

• 1 cup unsalted butter, softened
• 1 cup brown sugar
• 1/2 cup granulated sugar
• 2 eggs
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 cups chocolate chips

Steps:

1. Preheat oven to 350°F.
2. Cream butter and sugars until fluffy.
3. Add eggs and vanilla, mix well.
4. Stir in flour, baking soda, and salt.
5. Fold in chocolate chips.
6. Scoop onto baking sheet and bake 10-12 minutes.
7. Let cool slightly before eating (but we usually sneak one hot).

These cookies don’t always come out picture-perfect. But they’re warm and soft and full of love. And that’s what matters.

A New Kind of Rhythm

I still miss the quiet rhythm of my old kitchen. I miss clean counters and uninterrupted thoughts. I miss baking at midnight just for fun. But I’ve found a new rhythm now — one filled with squeals and flour prints and crumbs underfoot. And in that rhythm, I’ve rediscovered the joy that first pulled me into baking all those years ago.

Being a mom has forced me to let go of a lot. Time, energy, certainty. But it also gave me a new way to love food — as a way to connect, to slow down, to share. And honestly, that love feels deeper than anything I ever plated at a restaurant.

These days, baking doesn’t come with pressure. It comes with a tiny assistant who insists on sprinkles in everything and steals chocolate chips straight from the bowl. It comes with music on in the background and a dish towel on my shoulder and flour in our hair.

If you’ve felt that shift — if the kitchen feels different now — I get it. You’re not alone. Joy changes shape, but it doesn’t disappear. Sometimes it just shows up covered in flour, holding a wooden spoon.

If you’ve been in that space, tell me — what brought you back to the kitchen?