Why Baking Can Be Therapeutic

There are nights when the thought of sleep terrifies me. For most people, sleep is a reprieve—a time to recharge and reset. For me, it can be a battlefield. Living with severe acute PTSD, I don’t just deal with insomnia; I wrestle with night terrors so vivid and disturbing that waking up can feel like escaping a nightmare only to fall into another. There have been nights where I actually pull muscles in my sleep. On many nights, I actively avoid sleep because it doesn’t feel worth the risk.

And that’s where baking comes in. In the stillness of the night, when everyone else is peacefully dreaming, I find myself in the kitchen. Measuring, mixing, kneading. It’s not just a distraction—it’s a lifeline. Baking doesn’t just keep my hands busy; it gives me a purpose when the world feels too heavy.

The Kitchen as a Safe Haven

When I bake, it’s like stepping into another world—one where I can be fully present. PTSD has a way of making you feel like your mind is constantly in two places at once: here and wherever the trauma happened. It’s exhausting. But baking demands my full attention in the best way.

When I’m kneading dough, my hands are connected to the moment. When I’m whisking eggs and sugar, the sound of the metal bowl and the rhythm of the whisk pull me back to the here and now. There’s no room for intrusive thoughts when I’m focused on getting the consistency of a batter just right. Baking grounds me in a way few other activities can.

It’s also a space where I feel safe. The kitchen is predictable. I know what happens when I mix flour and water. I know the oven will beep when it’s preheated. In a life filled with uncertainty, that predictability feels like a hug from the universe.

Sleepless but Productive

Avoiding sleep isn’t exactly healthy, but some nights, it feels like survival. The idea of being trapped in another night terror—a scene I can’t escape, reliving trauma I’d rather forget—often feels more unbearable than exhaustion. On those nights, I don’t lie in bed waiting for sleep to come. Instead, I head to the kitchen.

Baking in the middle of the night feels almost sacred. There’s something about the quiet hum of the fridge, the faint glow of the oven light, and the steady rhythm of measuring ingredients that soothes me. It’s a ritual, one that turns the most isolating hours into something comforting. Especially while listening to soft piano music.

When the rest of the world is asleep, baking reminds me I’m still here, still capable of creating something good. And by the time the sun rises, I’ve not only survived another sleepless night—I’ve also created something tangible, something beautiful. Sometimes, that’s enough to get me through.

Night Terrors vs. Sourdough Starters

It might sound silly, but my sourdough starter has been a surprising ally in my battle with PTSD. Keeping it alive requires attention and care—a distraction from the fear that night terrors bring. Feeding it at odd hours, watching it bubble and grow, feels like nurturing something outside myself.

Sourdough baking is also incredibly forgiving. If the dough doesn’t rise perfectly, it’s okay—it’ll still taste good. If the loaf isn’t Instagram-worthy, it doesn’t matter. There’s comfort in knowing I can make mistakes in baking and still have something worthwhile at the end. It’s a reminder that imperfections don’t define the whole picture—a lesson I’m slowly learning to apply to myself, too.

The Sensory Healing of Baking

Baking isn’t just about the end result; it’s about the process. There’s something incredibly soothing about the sensory experience—the feel of soft dough beneath my hands, the smell of cinnamon wafting through the air, the sound of batter being poured into a pan.

For someone like me, who often feels disconnected from the present, these small, sensory moments are grounding. They remind me that I have a body, that I’m here, now. PTSD can make the world feel distant, like I’m watching my life from behind a pane of glass. Baking breaks through that barrier in a way that feels almost magical.

From Isolation to Connection

PTSD can be isolating. It’s hard to explain the fear, the flashbacks, the exhaustion to people who haven’t lived it. And even when I try, I often feel like a burden. But baking has given me a way to connect with others without needing words.

There’s something universal about sharing food. When I hand someone a loaf of homemade bread or a batch of cookies, I’m not just offering them something to eat—I’m offering a piece of myself. Baking has become my way of reaching out, even when I don’t have the energy to say, “I’m struggling, but I care about you.”

Lessons from the Oven

Baking has taught me lessons I didn’t know I needed. Like patience—bread dough will rise when it’s ready, not when I want it to. Or resilience—sometimes a cake sinks in the middle or cookies come out burnt, but that doesn’t mean I’ve failed. And, most importantly, it’s taught me that the process matters just as much as the result.

For someone with PTSD, where the past feels ever-present and the future feels uncertain, learning to find joy in the here and now has been invaluable. Baking has helped me do that, one recipe at a time.

For Anyone Struggling

If you’re living with trauma, insomnia, or even just the weight of a tough day, I can’t recommend baking enough. Start with something simple, like banana bread or chocolate chip cookies. Let yourself get lost in the process. Don’t worry about perfection—just focus on the act of creating.

Baking won’t cure PTSD. It won’t make the night terrors disappear or fix my insomnia. But it’s given me something I can turn to when the world feels too heavy. It’s a reminder that even on the hardest days, I can create something beautiful. And sometimes, that’s enough.

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