The Sunday Loaf: A Sweet Potato Loaf and the Art of Soft Survival

Baking Through Grief: A Self-Care Sunday Ritual

On a cold, stubborn Sunday in late April, I bake not because I must, but because I am learning to love my life again—one slow-roasted sweet potato, one steaming mug of coffee at a time.

In the quiet of my small kitchen, dressed in all black—the same black vintage skirt, cashmere mock-neck sweater, and opaque tights I wore to Mass—I sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg into the sweet potato mash. Cinnamon dust lingers in the air as the preheated oven hums softly, like a heartbeat in the stillness. And I am reminded: survival isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s soft. Sometimes it’s simply showing up for yourself, even when everything in you aches to disappear.

I bake to get my mind off things—because for me, baking and mental health have always been intertwined. My heart is heavy with grief—the kind that seeps under your skin, that sits on your chest, that chokes you before the tears even come.

Sweet Potato and Stillness: The Start of Comfort Baking

I add the vanilla, the black syrupy liquid pooling into the mash like grief spilling into memory, darkening the sweetness with something I can’t quite name. Then comes a half cup of sugar, and I whisk the mash until it turns light, fluffy, and glossy—like the first shimmer of hope after a long winter.

But as the ache rises, I keep whisking—because sometimes, choosing to stay in the moment is the only way to survive it.

Whisking Through the Ache: Therapeutic Baking in Motion

The afternoon sun spills through the kitchen window, catching the gold flecks in the cinnamon as I stir. I feel the ghost of the woman I used to be—vivid and full of life—moving beside me, her presence lingering in the quiet like steam rising from a fresh cup of coffee.

Flashes of my old life trail through my mind—the laughter, the late nights, the girl who loved herself fiercely, even when everything was falling apart. I remember the outfits I wore while photographing concerts, the late-night conversations with strangers, the feeling of youth—wild, electric, and fleeting. The memories come rushing in, thick and fast, and for a moment the grief grips me by the throat—demanding to be felt, refusing to be silenced— but I fight it off with motion, with rhythm, with the simple act of making something warm and sweet.

Ghosts, Memories, and the Art of Showing Up

I think about the daily pressures of my current life—the crushing loneliness, the weight of living in a place more expensive than the last, the constant tightrope walk of trying to survive. My bank account sometimes resembles an empty cup, waiting for a pour that never comes. I think about the way I fade into the background at church, the hollow ache of a love that never arrives, and the quiet demons I battle in the dark. I think about feeling like ‘too much’ and ‘not enough’ at the same time, a contradiction stitched into my skin that I still don’t know how to live with.

I’m on a tightrope between my past and my current life, between the woman I was and the woman I am becoming. Some days, I look back and wonder if she’s still inside me—bright, hopeful, alive. Other days, it feels like I’m building a new woman out of the pieces the old one left behind, stitching her together with shaking hands.

Folding Hope Into a Simple Sweet Potato Loaf Recipe

I pour the batter—my simple sweet potato loaf recipe, finished with toasted chopped walnuts folded in—into a loaf pan I found at Goodwill. The weight of it feels grounding in my hands, heavy with memory and intention. I smooth the batter into the corners with a spatula, the movement slow and deliberate, like I’m tucking hope into something I can hold.

I slide the pan into the oven and venture into the living room to wait for it to bake.

The Waiting Room of Healing: Coffee, YouTube, and Faith

At my kitchenette table, I sip coffee and half-watch YouTube videos on my laptop. My fingers absentmindedly trace the threads of my sweater—vintage, thrifted from a Goodwill in Asheville—its softness a quiet comfort against the ache in my chest. I try to find hope in another video about God, letting the preacher’s words wash over me like static, searching for something—anything—that might stick, that might spark, that might stir something still alive inside me.

I wait for the loaf to bake like I wait for my life to fall back in place, for the happiness to come back, for life to find me again. Healing, I’m learning, is a lot like baking something from scratch—you follow the steps, you do the work, and then you wait. You wait without knowing if it will rise, if it will be sweet enough, if it will hold together when you finally slice into it. You wait, because sometimes hope takes the shape of a loaf in the oven—rising slowly, quietly, invisible until it’s ready.

The Scent of Stillness: When Comfort Fills the Room

The scent of sweet potato, cinnamon, and sugar begins to drift in—comfort baking at its purest—soft and slow—filling the still air like something sacred. It moves through the apartment like memory, like a prayer, curling into corners, curling into me. And something in my chest softens. The ache doesn’t leave, but it loosens its grip.

When the timer goes off, I stand up slowly, walk into the kitchen, and open the oven door. The heat hits my face. The loaf is golden and risen, its cracked top glistening in the light. I check the center with a toothpick—holding my breath just a little. Perfect. It’s perfect—golden and warm, its scent curling around me like an embrace, like a small mercy at the end of a long, aching week.

A Loaf, A Life: How Healing Is Never Linear

I take it out of the oven and set it on the stovetop to cool. I brush melted butter onto the top, the finishing touch to something fragile and golden—its crust drinks in the gloss like skin thirsting for sun, softening beneath the brush in slow, glistening strokes.

And then—I wait. You always have to wait before you slice into something warm and delicate. If you rush it, it crumbles. Falls apart in your hands. Healing is the same. It’s not linear. It comes in waves—one moment steady, the next undone. Sometimes it feels like you’re finally making progress, only to fall flat again, knocked back by something invisible. Healing requires waiting. Stillness. Patience. The strength to believe that what’s rising beneath the surface will eventually hold.

Soft Slices and Small Victories

I make a butternut squash soup—something comforting and warm for a Sunday steeped in sunshine and melancholy. After dinner, I slice into the loaf and eat it slowly. It’s not as sweet as I hoped it’d be, but it’s moist and tastes like something made with care—soft, spiced, and honest, like a quiet offering to a life I’m relearning to love.

I’m satisfied, though still sad. The heaviness lingers in my bones, and the loaf doesn’t erase the ache in my chest—but for now, it’s enough to have made something. To have shown up. To have tried. In a world that asks so much of us, maybe this is what it means to keep going: finding one quiet way, each day, to keep choosing life.

One Quiet Way to Keep Choosing Life

If you’re hurting, I hope you find one small thing you can make with your hands. A loaf. A drawing. A letter you never send. Something that reminds you you’re still here. Still rising.

This is more than just baking—it’s a kind of therapeutic baking, a self-care Sunday wrapped in cinnamon and grief. It’s soft survival, slow living, and healing through baking—one quiet act of tenderness at a time.