Grief has a way of sneaking into every corner of your life. It’s not just the big moments—the anniversaries, the milestones that never came—but the quiet ones, too. It’s in the mornings when you wake up and remember what’s missing, and in the evenings when the silence feels heavier than usual. After my first miscarriage, I found myself drowning in that silence. I didn’t know how to move forward and quite frankly I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.
But grief, as consuming as it is, doesn’t stop the world from turning. It doesn’t stop the need to eat, to nourish yourself, to keep going—even when you don’t feel like it. For me, the kitchen became a lifeline. Cooking, something I’d always enjoyed, became more than just a task. It became a way to process my pain, to find small moments of peace, and, eventually, to start healing.
The Day Everything Changed
I’ll never forget the day of my first miscarriage. I was 13 weeks along, far enough to have started dreaming about the life this baby would have. Far enough to have imagined their face, their laugh, their first steps. Far enough to feel like I was finally stepping into the role I’d longed for: a mother.
But at that appointment, everything changed. The ultrasound tech’s face fell, and the room grew unbearably quiet. There was no heartbeat. Just like that, the dreams I’d built came crashing down. I left the doctor’s office numb, clutching a pamphlet I couldn’t bring myself to read. The days that followed were a blur of tears, anger, and an ache so deep it felt like it might swallow me whole.
I didn’t know how to move forward. I didn’t know if I even could.
Finding Solace in the Kitchen
In the weeks after the miscarriage, I found myself drawn to the kitchen—not because I was hungry, but because it was the only place where I felt like I had some control. Grief had taken so much from me, but in the kitchen, I could create something. I could follow a recipe, measure ingredients, and know that if I did everything right, I’d end up with something whole. Something finished.
I started small. A pot of soup. A loaf of bread. Simple things that didn’t require much thought but filled the silence. There was something meditative about the process—the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the way the dough came together under my hands. Cooking gave me a focus, a way to channel the emotions I couldn’t put into words.
And then there was the food itself. Eating something I’d made, something warm and comforting, felt like a small act of care. It reminded me that even in the depths of grief, I was still here. I was still capable of creating, of nourishing, of healing.
A Recipe for Healing
(Pictured, me, juggling a very hot cake)
One dish that became especially meaningful to me during this time was Vanilla Lemon Pound Cake. You might be wondering why I would name the vanilla first, well thats because I’m not a huge lemony-lemon fan and love, love me some vanilla! But heres the rub, my grandmother always added lemon, so adding just a touch of lemon allows me to honor her recipe and give this cake such a nice flavor.
It wasn’t just the taste that comforted me—it was the process of making it. The way it required patience, attention, and care. The way it reminded me that healing, like baking, takes time.
Here’s the recipe, in case you’d like to try it yourself:
Vanilla Lemon Pound Cake
Ingredients
4 sticks (2 cups) salted butter, softened
4 cups all-purpose flour, sifted
3 cups granulated sugar
6 large eggs, room temperature
½ cup whole milk
¼ cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract (use a really good one for the best flavor)
1 teaspoon almond extract
1 teaspoon lemon extract
Instructions
Preheat oven to 325°F (163°C). Grease and flour a large pound cake pan, ensuring all crevices are coated to prevent sticking.
In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, mix the softened butter and all three extracts (vanilla, almond, and lemon) on medium-high speed until smooth, creamy, and pale in color—about 4–5 minutes.
Gradually add sugar to the butter mixture, mixing until fully combined and fluffy.
Switch to the paddle attachment. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing on low speed after each addition. Make sure each egg is fully incorporated before adding the next, but be careful not to over mix.
In a small bowl, combine the whole milk and heavy cream.
With the mixer on low speed, add the flour and milk mixture in alternating additions. Start and end with the flour (flour, milk, flour, milk, flour), mixing just until incorporated after each addition.
Pour the batter evenly into the prepared cake pan, smoothing the top with a spatula. Bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour and 30 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Start checking at about 1.25.
Allow the cake to cool in the pan for 15 minutes, then carefully turn it out onto a wire rack to cool completely, at least two hours.
Slice and enjoy on its own, or serve with fresh berries and whipped cream for an extra special treat.
Pro Tips
Use room-temperature ingredients for the best results. This helps the batter mix more evenly and creates a smoother texture.
Don’t skip the step of alternating the flour and milk mixture—it helps prevent overmixing and ensures a tender crumb.
Store leftovers in an airtight container at room temperature for up to 3 days, or freeze for longer storage.
This recipe became a small but significant part of my healing journey. It gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt uncertain. high-quality vanilla, and a trio of extracts creates a moist, tender crumb that’s bursting with nostalgic flavor.
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