There was a time when my kitchen felt like chaos.
Plastic cups spilling from cabinets, gadgets I never used, drawers that barely closed.
Dinner was something I “got through” at the end of the day — fast, loud, and full of hurry.
But somewhere along the way — maybe after one too many nights of takeout or rushing — I realized I didn’t want more.
I wanted less.
Less clutter.
Less noise.
Less pressure to be perfect.
And somehow, less became so much more.
When you’ve lived in survival mode, “slowing down” doesn’t come naturally.
You’re used to moving fast — reacting, juggling, doing whatever it takes.
But I started small.
One weekend, I cleared out my kitchen.
I kept only the things I actually used — my cast-iron skillet, my kitchen aid, my favorite small appliances, a few wooden spoons, a good knife, and a handful of mugs.
Everything else? Gone.
And for the first time in a long time, I could breathe in that space.
That’s when I realized:
Simplicity isn’t about how little you have — it’s about how peaceful your life feels.
The first thing I made in my “new” kitchen wasn’t fancy.
Just homemade noodles…
I rolled out the dough on a floured table, feeling the rhythm of something familiar and slow.
There was no rush, no timer beeping, no multitasking — just me, the soft hum of quiet, and the scent of flour and hope.
Something about that moment felt sacred.
Because simplicity has a way of turning ordinary moments into holy ones.
Next came bread.
Not for show, not for Pinterest, not for a perfect photo — just to fill my home with warmth.
Kneading dough became my therapy.
Watching it rise reminded me that good things take time.
And when I pulled that first loaf from the oven, golden and imperfect, it felt like grace made visible.
I didn’t need a perfect kitchen.
I needed a peaceful one.
And peace doesn’t come from marble countertops or the latest gadgets — it comes from presence.
Now, my kitchen is simple:
Open shelves with dishes we actually use.
A few jars of flour, sugar, and coffee beans.
A wooden board where bread rises on quiet mornings.
That’s it.
And you know what? It’s enough.
The fewer things I own, the freer I feel.
There’s no clutter screaming for my attention — just space to breathe, create, and be.
When the world feels heavy, I step into my kitchen, make some coffee, and remember:
Simple doesn’t mean small.
It means intentional.
If your kitchen — or your life — feels too loud, start small.
Pick one drawer, one recipe, one quiet morning to begin again.
Make the noodles.
Bake the bread.
Light the candle.
You don’t need perfection to find peace — you just need to slow down long enough to feel it.
Because grace lives in the ordinary.
And peace often waits… right there on the counter, beside the rolling pin, in a home that finally feels like yours.
With warmth,
Sarah
On the Riverbend
“Where faith meets motherhood — and chaos finds grace.”