This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Washington chapter and does not reflect the views of Her Campus.
And why it is ok if your starter dies (a few times)
Sophomore year hit me hard. Not with anything dramatic, just a slow, hard-to-name kind of burnout. I stopped getting up on time. Stopped cooking. I stopped hanging out with my friends. Most mornings I stayed in bed scrolling until class started, and even then, barely made it. I wasn’t depressed exactly. But I was stuck.
One afternoon, buried in a TikTok hole, I watched a sourdough tutorial. I remembered my mother had gotten into baking during quarantine, and suddenly I wanted to try. Not because I thought I’d become the next great home baker, but because I needed something to do with my hands. Something that didn’t require a screen.
Homemaking a starter
I followed Alexandra’s Kitchen guide. It uses pineapple juice to create an acidic environment that wild yeast love. The process was simple: equal parts flour and pineapple juice on day one, followed by daily feedings with flour and water.
At first, the ritual felt good. Each morning, I woke up at the same time to stir in new flour and water. I even wrote down the time and weight, as Alexandra suggested. It gave me a reason to start my day, which I hadn’t had in a while.
But by the first week’s end, I noticed no bubbles, no rise. It smelled pleasant and looked fine, but it just wouldn’t grow. I kept hoping that maybe I’d see change overnight, but nothing. And weirdly, that made me feel worse. I was doing everything right, so why wasn’t anything happening?
In hindsight, I realize it wasn’t about the bread. It was about control. I thought I could fix how I felt if I followed the steps. But sourdough doesn’t always follow a timeline.
Still, I didn’t throw it away. I used some of the discards for pancakes and kept trying. Eventually, I decided to try a new method, this time from King Arthur Baking.
Second Rise
A few weeks later, I tried again. I used King Arthur’s sourdough starter guide this time, which felt more structured and forgiving. The process was basically the same, equal parts flour and water (I used 120 each), once a day but King Arthur emphasized that it’s normal for starters to slow down or look inactive, that a missed day isn’t the end of the world.
I started building my mornings around this tiny ritual: wake up, feed the starter, shower afterward, and get ready for class. I wasn’t suddenly cured of anxiety or back to peak productivity, but I had a reason to get out of bed. And that was something.
Over time, feeding the starter turned into baking with it. I shared loaves with my roommate and texted my friends who were baking experts for bread storage tips. Through my sourdough, I didn’t just reconnect with myself; I reconnected with people I care about.
What Sourdough Taught Me
Keeping a sourdough starter alive requires consistency, but it also teaches flexibility. You can miss a feeding, get behind, or restart. That lesson mattered more than the bread.
I still bake occasionally, but the starter doesn’t dictate my schedule anymore. It just helped me find one when I needed it. So if your starter dies, even a few times, it’s okay. Start again when you’re ready. Like the dough, you’ll rise too, eventually. Maybe not on schedule, but in your own time, and that’s enough.