From Duncan. Edited for clarity and length.
Chasing a dream has never been about being fearless — it’s about showing up anyway.
Growing up, my mom used to say, “You don’t want to regret the moments you didn’t take.” I’d smile, nod, and move on — like most kids do. But her words stuck with me.
As I got older, they stopped sounding like a life lesson and started feeling like a warning. Especially when fear crept in. Not the kind of fear that says run — but the kind that says, this matters.
For me, that “something” is baking.
It’s in my blood. My gran ran a bakery, and her pecan tarts were legendary — buttery, golden, filled with warmth. She had a way with spices. Whenever she tied on her blue-and-yellow apron, you knew magic was coming. That apron didn’t just mean baked goods. It meant love.
My mom carried that tradition forward. She wasn’t loud in the kitchen — she was focused, deliberate, detailed in a way that couldn’t be taught. I’d watch her scribble ideas into a notebook, test, tweak, and perfect until the recipe felt right. Her baking was precise, but never clinical. She baked with her heart.
So when I decided to step into this world professionally, I thought I was ready. I had the recipes, the stories, the heritage.
What I didn’t have was peace. No one warns you about the weight of legacy — the fear of falling short of those who came before you.
It wasn’t a fear of burnt edges or sunken middles. It was the deeper stuff: What if I’m not enough? What if I don’t honour what they built?
And then there was the other kind of pressure — being a man in a space that, where I’m from, isn’t seen as “masculine.” Baking? That’s a hobby. A soft skill. A side gig. Not a career. My dad adored my mom’s baking — he just didn’t picture it for me.
He wanted something more “stable.” More… predictable. A job with benefits, not buttercream.
But I had a dream, and a kitchen. So I started small. No shop with a fancy logo and glossy displays. Just me, my oven, and whatever I could carry.
I’d give out samples to anyone who’d take them — friends, neighbours, friends of neighbours. Because I wanted people to taste more than sugar. I wanted them to taste home. A bit of my mom. A whisper of my gran.
Some days were brutal. I’d get home exhausted, questioning everything. Is this worth it? Am I actually good? Does anyone care?
And then I’d get a text: “That cupcake tasted like my childhood.” Or a message: “Your cake reminded me of my gran’s.”
Just like that, the fear would quiet — even if just for a moment. And in those moments, I felt saved.
Because baking isn’t just about food. It’s about memory. It’s emotion, comfort, legacy. And for me, it’s healing. Every time I bake, I feel like I’m reconnecting with where I come from — and grounding myself in where I’m going.
The fear hasn’t gone away. It still shows up when I try something new. When I raise my prices. When I let myself dream bigger. But I’ve stopped seeing it as the enemy. Because fear means I still care. It means I haven’t gone numb.
I think that’s what my mom meant all along — Regret doesn’t come from failing. It comes from never trying.
So here I am — chasing a dream with fear in my chest and legacy on my shoulders. I don’t know where this path leads, but I know one thing: I’d rather leap and fail than stand still wondering what if.
And if you’re standing at the edge of your own dream, scared and uncertain — that’s a good sign.
That fear means you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
Reviewed April 2025. Always consult a professional for individual guidance.
