My sister asked me what was wrong, and I couldn't explain it properly. It's not about the bread. The bread can be replaced. But there was something in that moment that felt like losing something important. 🔥 It reminded me of all the small things I've failed at, all the moments I wasn't careful enough, all the times I let something precious burn while I was busy with other things.

Growing up in the village, I learned that food isn't just food. It's love, it's care, it's responsibility. 🌾 When my grandmother baked bread, she was present with every minute of it. She didn't rush. She didn't get distracted. She poured her attention into those loaves like they were her children. And the bread reflected that—it was always perfect, always warm, always filled with something you could taste but not name.

I moved to the city thinking I could still bake like that, but it's harder here. There's always something else demanding your attention. Your phone buzzes, someone needs something from you, your mind is elsewhere. And then the bread burns, and you realize you've lost something along with it. 😔

But here's what I realized as I was cleaning up the burnt crumbs: the loss isn't really about the bread. It's about presence. It's about the fact that I'm becoming someone who can't even stay focused on one simple task. I'm becoming scattered, distracted, less intentional. And that scares me more than a burnt loaf ever could.

So tomorrow I'm baking again. And I'm going to do it differently. I'm going to turn off my phone. I'm going to be fully present. Because that's not just about bread—that's about reclaiming something of who I used to be. 🕯️

Is it possible to live in a modern city and still maintain the kind of presence and intentionality I learned in the village?