There are moments in life that hit you so hard, they shake you to the core. For me, the break-up of my 26 year relationship was one of those moments. It wasn't just the end of a partnership - it felt like the end of everything.

We had grown up together, met as teenagers, and built a life. We'd started a family, and everything seemed right until the cracks started showing. And then, there were the things I hadn't anticipated - the way his childhood would affect him as a parent, how our relationship would shift. When the end came, I was broken, unsure of myself and everything around me. But, as difficult as it was, I knew I couldn't stay to make other people happy. We only get one life.

I remember moving out of our shared home and into a little damp cottage. Why did I move there? Honestly? It had an amazing view and a quirky front door. It wasn't perfect - there were rats in the loft, and the damp walls made intricate patterns that I wasn't used to - but it was mine.

The first time I shut the door, all I could hear was silence. For some, that might have been unbearable, but for me, it was exactly what I needed. The silence felt like space - space to think, to breathe. Even my mum commented " I wouldn't put a dog in here!" But in that cottage, I found the time and space to rebuild. And while the physical space wasn't ideal, emotionally, it was what I needed to begin my journey of healing.

I spent three years there. There was no heating, just one radiator in one small room downstairs, despite the landlord saying he would put heating in, he never did, and it was cold all the time.

I will never forget the first night I spent in that cottage. I woke up shivering under a summer quilt-in February. I hadn't thought about how cold it would be, and with only one radiator in the whole place, the chill crept in fast. My clothes were still stuffed into black bin bags at the foot of my bed, and in the middle of the night, I heard rustling.

I froze. My mind raced. What the hell is that?

And then it hit me - an old, damp cottage comes with more than just draughts and mouldy walls. It comes with little furry friends, too. I lay there, exhausted, but all I could do was listen to the sound of something scurrying, rustling through the plastic bags. It was almost laughable - almost.

That first night set the tone for what would be a challenging time. It was uncomfortable, unsettling, and nothing like the home I had left behind. But in that tiny, cold, crumbling space, I had something precious: a chance to rebuild.

Leaving a Life Behind

Walking away from a 26 year relationship is not something you do on a whim. We had grown together, built a life together. We had children together, a home, history. But I knew I couldn't stay to make other people happy. I had one life to live, and I couldn't spend it ignoring the voice inside me saying, this isn’t right anymore.

But that didn’t make leaving any easier. the transition was brutal. I moved into a damp, leaky cottage with no heating, where I could hear rats in the loft and watch water run down the kitchen walls. It wasn't the warm, welcome fresh start I had hoped for. It was survival.

And if the emotional weight of seperation wasn't enough, life decided to test me further. Within that same 6 month period, I lost my job of 15 years. I had two car crashes. It felt like the universe was throwing everything at me at once.

One of those things alone would have been hard enough. But all of them together? It was overwhelming .

The Kitchen Became My Sanctuary

In those early days, I didn’t bake cakes at home - I did that all day at work. But I did bake bread. Simple, delicious, comforting bread. I made it every other day, sometimes with my boys, though more often than not, they weren't interested. And that was ok.

What mattered was that our home was filled with the smell of baking, of warmth, of something constant when everything else felt uncertain. Even in the cold, even with the cold creeping up the walls, there was something grounding about that scent filling the air. It was my way of creating a safe space, even when I felt anything but safe.

Rebuilding, One Loaf at a Time

I won’t sugarcoat it - I was broken. And my boys held me together in a way that, if I'm honest, I'm not entirely proud of. It's a lot for pre teens to witness, to carry. But looking back, I believe that experience shaped them. They grew with a deeper emotional maturity, an understanding of resilience, of how people build after loss.

I wanted them to have a home that felt safe, even if it wasn't perfect, I wanted them to feel the comfort of something homemade, the reassurance that no matter how hard things got, we could still create something beautiful.

And slowly, bit by bit, I began to rebuild - not just my home, but myself.

The Power Of Baking Through Hard Times

Baking has always been more than just making food for me. It's a form of mindfulness, a way to bring myself back to the present when my mind feels scattered. It's about slowing down, engaging my senses, and finding peace in the process.

During that time, I wasn't baking elaborate cakes or perfect pastries - I was making the most of things. But even that was enough. Kneading dough, watching it rise, pulling a fresh loaf from the oven - it reminded me that good things take time. That even in the hardest moments, something warm and comforting could still come from my hands.

Moving Forward

I spent three years in that cottage. I will never miss the damp walls or the way the water poured down the kitchen wall the weekend I moved out. I will never miss the cold, the mould, or the rats in the loft.

But I will remember what it taught me.

It taught me that I am stronger than I thought. That I can start over. That even when things fall apart, I can still create something with love.

Life moves forward, whether we're ready or not. And now, with a new home, and a new chapter, I look back on that time not as one of survival, but one of transfomation.

And if it's one thing I take from this, it's this: No matter how hard life gets, there is always comfort to be found in the kitchen.

Even in the darkest moments, something as simple as the smell of fresh bread can remind us that we're still here. We're still standing. and we can begin again.