The Sourdough Starter Problem: When Commitments Cost More Than We Think

I thought I was going to make bread.

Instead, I ended up with one more daily chore.

Sourdough is having a moment. Gut health claims aside, it has become a symbol of simplicity—of slowing down, of returning to basics. After all, what could be simpler than a little flour, water, and time?

Quite a lot, it turns out.

At the beginning, the sourdough starter seemed simple enough: a little feeding, a little attention, a little planning. I was delighted to watch it “bloom.” But once the novelty wore off, I found myself feeling resentful of the ecosystem I had created. This wasn’t like feeding fish. It was a measured, sticky, and messy task—one I felt obligated to perform daily just to keep it alive. I noticed an odd sense of guilt when I was too tired, too busy, or when I simply forgot.

None of this was difficult.

But it was constant.

And that’s where the cost showed up.

The Cost We Forget to Count

Many of the commitments we take on don’t exhaust us because they’re hard to perform. They drain us because they take our time—often without us fully noticing. My sourdough starter wasn’t demanding in any dramatic way. It didn’t interfere with my work, my relationships, or my quality of life. It simply required ongoing attention.

The real cost wasn’t the flour. It was the time.

Time isn’t neutral. Given often enough, it quietly pulls us into commitment—sometimes before we realize we’ve agreed.

Every commitment, even the smallest ones, makes a claim on our time. Over the course of a day, it shapes our routines, the energy we expend, and the flexibility we have.

For what?

That was the question that finally stopped me.

The bread was beautiful. It was delicious. But was it worth the mental space it occupied? The

low-level anxiety of knowing it needed something from me. The quiet guilt when I didn’t give it.

For me, the answer was no. The value of maintaining the starter—or the planning and time

required to do anything with it—was not proportional to what it cost me. The benefit simply

didn’t outweigh the cost.

And that’s the part we often forget to consider.

We tend to evaluate commitments by asking questions like: Is this a good thing? What kind of

person does this make me? What will others think of me? What we ask less often is whether the ongoing cost of a commitment aligns with what truly matters to us.

Is this something I want to keep giving my time to?

Is this something I still want to hold space for?

The Quiet Creep of Commitment

Much of what exhausts us accumulates slowly. It rarely arrives as a single, dramatic event.

A weekly obligation that becomes emotionally loaded.

A project that never quite ends.

A responsibility taken on casually and maintained out of habit.

Individually, these commitments seem manageable. Together, they create a sense of overwhelm that can be hard to name. Like the sourdough starter, they don’t shout. They just keep asking.

The issue isn’t commitment itself. Some commitments are deeply worth the time they require.

They bring meaning, connection, and fulfillment. The problem lies with unconscious

commitments—those we never fully planned for or explicitly chose.

When we don’t account for time honestly, it slips into commitments we never really consented to. We say yes to the idea of something without fully agreeing to the ongoing demands it will make on us.

Letting Go as an Act of Respect

I got rid of my sourdough starter.

Not because I failed.

Not because it was a bad idea.

Not because I was incapable.

I let it go because I finally noticed what it was costing me—and I decided my time mattered.

Letting go wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, and oddly relieving. Sometimes the most grounded

response isn’t perseverance. It’s permission.

Permission to reconsider.

Permission to change our minds.

Permission to choose time over productivity, aspiration or should.

A Gentle Reflection

Is there a “small” commitment in your life that quietly asks for more time than you want to

give—not because it’s wrong, but because it may no longer be right for you?

That question, more than any productivity strategy, is often where enough begins.