The Beliefs I Had to Unlearn

Looking back, the biggest thing I learned this year wasn’t another recipe. It was letting go of the beliefs that were keeping me from trying.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

Every new baker has a list. Not of recipes — of beliefs. The invisible list we carry before we’ve even walked into the kitchen and given ourselves a real chance.

I’m talking about the belief that I wasn’t experienced enough. That I’d probably mess it up because this was way too much for someone like me. That others in this space were simply more talented; naturally, effortlessly, in ways I couldn’t compete with. Those recipes steeped in tradition, in family memory, in generations of feeling — those weren’t mine to touch.

I carried that list for a long time. And not once did it help me bake anything better. What it did was keep me small, keep me hesitant, keep me standing at the edge of something I genuinely wanted instead of stepping into it.

These are the beliefs I had to unlearn. One bake at a time.

“Traditional recipes aren’t mine to make.”

Black Cake

If you grew up in a Caribbean home, you already know that black cake determines the mood of Christmas. It is not a casual bake. The fruits are soaked months in advance — sometimes close to a year. The grinding, the making, the sharing — all of it carries weight and expectation. Getting it wrong isn’t just a kitchen disappointment. It’s something people remember.

So the thought of making this cake scared me. I was genuinely intimidated by the whole thing. And I had my own ideas about it too — I prefer a lighter cake, less dense than the traditional version, with less rum. Making those changes on top of everything else made me nervous. Who was I to put my own spin on something so deeply rooted in tradition?

But I made it anyway. Not to replace the tradition — to have a conversation with it. To learn it from the inside and then find my place within it.

My aunt tried it. She loved it. She ordered a second one.

That moment taught me that tradition isn’t something to be protected out of fear. It’s preserved by people who are willing to learn it, respect it, and carry it forward; even when they’re not sure they’re ready.

“Yeast is too hard”

Bread

I’ll be honest — yeast intimidated me. The temperature had to be right, the timing had to be right, and then there was the waiting. As someone actively working on patience, the waiting felt endless.

But what I realized is that yeast was never difficult. It was just unfamiliar.

Bread taught me two things I didn’t expect. First, it taught me what slowing down actually looks like in practice; not just as a concept, but as something required of you whether you like it or not. Between activation, kneading, the first rise and the second, there is no rushing. The bread simply will not allow it. Second, it taught me to observe. To learn what each stage looks and feels like. To use what I was seeing as my guide rather than just watching the clock. A healthy yeast activation looks different from one you’ve accidentally killed. The dough tells you things if you’re paying attention.

Yeast wasn’t the hard part. Learning to slow down enough to listen was.

”I have to follow every rule perfectly”

The Grenadian Flavors Donut Series

When I first started baking I believed every rule needed to be followed exactly. And in the beginning, that was true — I needed the foundation before I could push against it. But I knew early on that I wanted to take Grenadian flavors somewhere beyond what we would normally expect from them.

Then came the donuts. They felt like the perfect canvas. Open, versatile, modern enough to hold something traditional without flattening it.

But I had to learn donut-making first. To understand how they work, how far they can be pushed, where the limits actually are — before I could decide which ones were worth breaking. You have to have the conversation with a recipe before you can change it.

And the flavor combinations coming? I may have pushed further than I planned. But we’ll see.

Creativity isn’t breaking the rules. It’s understanding them well enough to know exactly what you’re doing when you don’t follow them.

”Real bakers don’t make mistakes”

Burnt Coconut Filling + Everything Else

I genuinely believed this for a while. That the bakers I admired produced beautiful things because they had something I didn’t;  some natural instinct that kept them from burning things, from failed batches, from recipes that just wouldn’t cooperate.

What I’ve learned is that professionals fail constantly. They’ve just failed more times than beginners have, and they stopped letting the failure mean something about their ability. The burnt coconut filling I threw out four times before getting it right — a professional has a version of that story too. The recipe that didn’t come together the way I pictured; so does every baker who has ever created something original.

The difference isn’t talent. It’s what you decide the mistake means. Failure isn’t proof that you’re not a baker. It’s proof that you’re baking. That you’re in it, trying, adjusting, showing up again.

Every mistake I’ve made in this kitchen has taught me something the successes couldn’t.

“I wasn’t ready.”

Starting The Sweet Life

I’m going to be very frank about this one. I was scared. Terrified. Petrified about starting The Sweet Life.

I had the idea. I knew it felt right. But I didn’t feel ready for any of it; creating a website, sharing my writing publicly, recording myself, editing, putting work out into the world and waiting to see if anyone cared. I remember almost talking myself out of it entirely.

But I posted anyway. Then I posted again. Then again. And with each one I got a little more comfortable — not because the fear disappeared, but because I had proof that I could do it scared.

What I know now is that nobody feels completely ready for something they’ve never done before. Especially something that matters. It will absolutely terrify you. And you show up anyway. You post anyway. You get back up and try again anyway. You become ready by doing the thing — not by waiting until doing it feels safe.

The Biggest Belief I Had to Let Go Of

“I wasn’t a real baker.”

Of all the beliefs on that invisible list, this one held on the longest.

Who was I to be creating recipes, sharing them publicly, teaching other people about baking? I had the love for it — but did that make me qualified? And the writing — sharing that publicly felt exposing in a way I hadn’t anticipated. In the beginning, when no one was reading, I wanted to quit. I kept going anyway.

Then my family started requesting my bakes. My friends became my most honest taste testers. People started baking from my recipes and coming back to tell me about it. And slowly, quietly, the evidence started to outweigh the doubt.

That’s when I stopped waiting for someone else to give me permission to call myself a baker, a teacher, a writer, a creator. Because all of that was already in me. I just needed to believe it first.

They Disappeared One Bake at a Time

I won’t tell you these beliefs disappear overnight. That would be dishonest. What I can tell you is that the more you show up, the further they get from you. They loosen their grip. They stop feeling like facts and start feeling like what they always were — stories. Stories you told yourself before you had enough evidence to tell a better one.

Every loaf. Every failed donut. Every recipe that didn’t work until it finally did.

Confidence in the kitchen wasn’t something I found. It was something I baked — and created.

What’s a belief you’ve outgrown? In the kitchen or in life. I’d love to hear.