When I find myself drawn to something, I tend to go all in.
Not to master it—there’s no such thing—but to see what it has to teach me.

For a long time, I thought I was chasing results.
Consistency.
Validation.
But the pursuits that stay with me do so for another reason:
they teach me how to pay attention.
A way to test myself.
A way to express something that doesn’t quite fit into words.

Bread has become that place.

I consider myself a student of bread.
The more I learn, the more I see how much remains.
Every loaf teaches something, but none of them will mark an end point.
Success is temporary, and it never carries forward.

There are simply too many variables.
Each bake begins from zero—
an opportunity to pay closer attention,
to adapt, to refine,
and realize I still have more to learn.

Bread has taught me patience above all else.
Rush it, and pay the price.

Over time—loaf after loaf, season after season—
something else begins to form.
Not certainty, but familiarity.
An understanding built slowly through repetition, attention, and failure.

Eventually, the hands know before the mind does.
That’s not mastery.
It’s intuition.