Generations Abroad Media (GAM)

The first thing I ever baked entirely for myself was a lemon loaf - bright, sweet, too dense in the middle, and somehow perfect.

I didn’t grow up baking.
In my ABC household, food was practical:
quick stir-fries, steaming bowls of congee, dishes meant for sharing.
No one baked “just because.”
No one baked for only one person.

But after moving to Boston for my first job, “just because” became something I desperately needed.

Post-college adulthood hit harder than I expected.
Work was demanding, friendships scattered, evenings quiet.
Some nights I microwaved dumplings and ate them leaning over the sink, too tired to sit properly.

One Friday, after a week that felt like climbing uphill with wet shoes, I wandered through a supermarket and stopped in front of the baking aisle - sugar, flour, butter, all staring at me like an invitation.

I bought everything for that lemon loaf, even a new loaf pan.

That night, as I stirred batter in my tiny apartment kitchen, something shifted.
Measuring, zesting, mixing... All slow, simple and tasks pulled me out of my head and into my body again.
The scent of lemon rising from the oven felt like sunlight.

When I sat down to eat the first slice, warm and imperfect, it tasted like something I hadn’t felt in a long time:

Permission.

Permission to take care of myself without waiting for a special occasion.
Permission to enjoy something without needing to earn it.
Permission to create comfort instead of waiting for it.

After that, baking became my private ritual.

Banana bread on rainy Saturdays.
Blueberry muffins before early meetings.
A chocolate cake on a random Tuesday, simply because the world felt too heavy to carry alone.

I didn’t post pictures.
I didn’t compare with anyone online.
I just baked quietly, and gently as a way of reminding myself I deserved softness.

One evening, as a cinnamon loaf cooled on the counter, there was a knock on my door.
It was Jonathan, the neighbor two floors down, the one who always held the elevator.

“Sorry if this is weird,” he said, “but… are you baking something that smells amazing?”

I laughed and handed him a slice.

He returned the container later with a note:
“Best thing I’ve eaten all week.”

And so a small tradition began.
Every few weeks, I’d leave baked goods outside his door with sticky notes:

“Good luck on your project!”
“Hope today feels kinder than yesterday.”

Sometimes he’d respond with homemade dumplings or leftover soup from his mom’s recipe.
Care in exchange for care - quiet, simple, human.

What started as baking for myself slowly became baking for connection.

Last month, I almost skipped my weekly ritual.
Work was overwhelming.
I felt drained.
But something inside whispered:
Do it anyway. For you.

So I pulled out the flour and butter again.
By the time the loaf cooled, my apartment smelled like reassurance.

And I realized something:

Baking had become a language, the way I remind myself I’m still here, still trying, still worthy of gentleness.
And sometimes, the way I remind someone else too.