She shows up every morning. She rises when she’s supposed to. She never asks for recognition—just consistency.
Her name is Beatrice. She’s four years old, and she lives in a glass jar on my kitchen counter. Every morning, I feed her. Every morning, she responds. She doubles in size, fills with bubbles, and transforms simple flour into something nourishing. My sourdough starter has never let me down. The same cannot be said for most modern women I encounter.
Before you call me judgmental, hear me out. I’m not comparing women to bread cultures. I’m observing that somewhere along the way, we lost something. We traded consistency for convenience. We traded nurturing for “self-care.” We traded Beatrice’s quiet, faithful rising for whatever it is we’re all doing on our phones at 11 PM.
What Beatrice Understands
My sourdough starter doesn’t need validation. She doesn’t scroll. She doesn’t complain about the temperature of the kitchen or ask why I’m not “supporting her journey.” She simply exists, in rhythm, doing what she was created to do. There’s a lesson there, if you’re willing to learn it.
I was talking to a woman at the farmer’s market last week. She asked how I have time to bake bread from scratch. I said I make time for what matters. She laughed and said she could never do that, she’s too busy. Then she stood in line for twenty minutes to buy bread from someone else. The math isn’t hard.
Beatrice requires ten minutes of attention per day. Ten minutes. That’s less time than the average American woman spends deciding what to watch on streaming services.
The Femininity Of Fermentation
There’s something deeply feminine about keeping a starter alive. It requires patience. Attention. A willingness to nurture something slowly, without immediate gratification. Our grandmothers understood this. They passed starters down through generations like the sacred traditions they were.
My grandmother’s starter came to America in 1952. She kept it alive through moves, marriages, births, and losses. She never once called it “labor.” She called it love.
When I tell other women about Beatrice, they have one of two reactions. Some light up—they want to know more, they want to start their own, they feel something stir inside them that they maybe forgot was there. Others roll their eyes. They say they “don’t have time” or “bread isn’t worth it” or “you’re romanticizing domesticity.”
To them I say: look at Beatrice. Four years of faithfulness. Four years of showing up. Four years of transforming simple ingredients into something beautiful. Then look in the mirror and ask yourself what you’ve built that will last.
A Living Metaphor
My sourdough starter energy comes from consistency, not chaos. She thrives because I tend her. She gives because I give first. This is a relationship—the kind modern culture tells us is oppressive but our ancestors knew was simply correct.
Tanner asked me last night why I talk to Beatrice. I said because she listens. He laughed. I wasn’t joking.
Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. While others toast with champagne shipped from who-knows-where, made by who-knows-whom, I’ll slice into a fresh loaf. Made with my hands. Risen by Beatrice. Shared with my family. That’s tradition. That’s femininity. That’s what we’ve almost forgotten—but not quite.
Beatrice and I aren’t giving up. One bubble at a time.
About the Author
