Finding comfort, focus, and a little joy—one recipe at a time
For most of my life, cooking was something I had to do, not something I loved. As a working single mom, my meals were usually about getting something on the table fast. Quick, practical, fill-the-belly kind of food. I never had the time, energy, or honestly the confidence to experiment much in the kitchen.
But something shifted a few years ago.
Cooking is therapy. It’s a way to turn off the world and just be present in the moment.
The house got quieter. The pace of life slowed just enough. And somehow, I found myself wandering into the kitchen—not out of necessity, but out of curiosity. I started trying recipes I’d bookmarked but never dared to make. I watched people online cook with calm hands and easy confidence, and I thought, “Maybe I could try that too.”
What surprised me most wasn’t the food—it was how I felt while cooking.
Stirring the Pot: How Cooking Became My Unexpected Calm
There’s something deeply soothing about the rhythm of it all: chopping, stirring, tasting, waiting. It slows down the chatter in my mind. When the world feels loud or overwhelming, I can turn on a little music, pull out a mixing bowl, and disappear into the simple act of making something with my hands.
It’s not about perfection. I still mess up recipes. I burn the toast. I forget the salt. But it doesn’t really matter. I’ve learned to enjoy the process more than the outcome—though a good batch of cookies certainly doesn’t hurt.
Baking especially has become my version of self-care. Measuring flour, whisking eggs, folding batter—it all pulls me into the moment. It’s methodical and creative at the same time, and I never expected to love it this much.
Cooking has also reconnected me to people in a small but meaningful way. I find joy in sharing what I make, whether it’s a cozy soup dropped off for a friend or a tray of muffins for my grown child when they stop by. It’s become a quiet way of showing care and presence.
I’m still not a fancy cook. You won’t see me flambéing anything or whipping up soufflés. But I’m here, finding peace in the little things—a warm pan, a wooden spoon, the scent of cinnamon in the air.
If you’ve ever thought, “I’m just not a cook,” maybe give it another try. You might surprise yourself like I did.
– Kate
Real life, real experiences. Share your wisdom, your wins, or even the mess — because life after 50 is worth talking about.
