I've been trying to make croissants for four days.

Actually, that's not accurate. I've been failing to make croissants for four days. There's a difference.¹

Attempt One ended up as hockey pucks. Attempt Two was somehow both raw and burnt (physics is a mystery). Attempt Three looked perfect until I dropped the entire tray reaching for the oven mitts. Attempt Four—Attempt Four didn't even make it to the oven because I forgot to let the dough rest and it basically disintegrated when I tried to roll it.

It's 11:47 PM on a Wednesday. I'm on Attempt Five. The kitchen smells like butter and crushed dreams. There's flour on every surface including my glasses, which means I can't actually see what I'm doing, which is probably fine because what I'm doing is FAILING SPECTACULARLY.

But I'm so close. The dough looks right this time. The layers are actually visible. The shape is—okay, they're lumpy, but lumpy in an artisanal way, right? Like rustic French countryside lumpy, not "I have no idea what I'm doing" lumpy.

I slide the tray into the oven.

Set the timer for 18 minutes.

Stand there staring at the oven door like I can will them into perfection through sheer desperation.

This is what freedom looks like at midnight. Standing in your kitchen in jeans and an old t-shirt, covered in flour, trying to prove something to absolutely no one.

The thing is, I want to add pastries to The Hot Mess's menu. Real pastries. Not the sad pre-frozen things I could buy from a supplier. Something mine. Something I made. Because if I can make perfect coffee, surely I can make ONE OTHER THING, right?

Except apparently not.

The timer goes off. I grab the oven mitts—the new ones I bought after the Attempt Three disaster—and reach for the tray.

The mitt slips.

My hand hits the oven rack.

For approximately three seconds, I don't process what's happening. My brain says "that's warm" in the same tone you'd say "that's interesting." Then every nerve in my hand screams in unison.

I jerk back. The tray tips. Twelve almost-perfect croissants—the closest I've gotten in FOUR DAYS—slide off in slow motion and hit the floor with a sound like all my hopes and dreams shattering.

I'm still holding my hand.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

The croissants are on the floor. Four days of practice. A week's worth of butter. My entire Wednesday night. My hand is BURNED and the stupid croissants are on the FLOOR and I can't do ANYTHING right, I can't even make BREAD—

I sink down onto the kitchen floor.

Still holding my hand.

Start crying.

Not cute crying. Not gentle tears. Full sobbing. The kind where you can't breathe and your nose runs and you're making noises that would horrify your mother except your mother isn't speaking to you anyway so WHO CARES.

I can't do this.

I can't run a coffee shop. I can't make pastries. I can't be independent. I'm going to fail and run out of money and have to move home and wear jean skirts forever and listen to Mother's silence and Dad's disappointed texts and—

My phone rings.

I ignore it.

It rings again.

I look at the screen through my tears. Jennifer.

Of course it's Jennifer. Because Jennifer has a sixth sense for when I'm having a complete breakdown and also terrible timing.

I don't answer.

She texts: "I SAW YOUR LIGHT ON. YOU OKAY?"

Then: "I'm coming over."

Then: "Don't tell me not to."

Three minutes later, there's a knock. I'm still on the floor. Still crying. Still holding my burned hand. Surrounded by failed croissants like some kind of sad French bakery crime scene.

"Rena?" Jennifer's voice through the door. "I'm using my key."

I gave her a key last month. For emergencies. This probably qualifies.

The door opens. Jennifer appears in my line of vision, perfectly put-together even at midnight in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, hair in a messy bun that looks intentional. She takes in the scene: me on the floor, croissants everywhere, the smell of burnt butter, my hand wrapped in a dish towel.²

"Oh, honey."

She sits down right there on the floor next to me. Doesn't ask what happened. Doesn't try to fix it. Just sits.

We stay like that for probably two minutes.

Then she picks up one of the croissants. Studies it. Takes a bite.

I stare at her. "What are you doing?"

"Quality control," she says, chewing thoughtfully. She takes another bite. "Rena. This is actually amazing."

"It was on the floor."

"It's just really, really crispy."

I laugh. It comes out as a sob-hiccup-snort combination that would be mortifying if I had any dignity left, which I don't.

Jennifer picks up another one. Hands it to me. "Seriously. Try it."

"My hand hurts."

"Other hand."

I take it. Bite into it. It IS burnt. Objectively over-done. The bottom is basically carbon. But the layers are there. The butter is there. The flakiness—when you get past the charcoal exterior—is actually kind of there.

"See?" Jennifer says. "Success. Just in a really aggressive font."

I start laughing. Really laughing. Which makes me start crying again. Now I'm doing both simultaneously, eating a burnt croissant on my kitchen floor at midnight while my best friend holds my burned hand and refuses to let me spiral.

"I've failed five times," I say. "Five. I can't do anything right."

"You've tried five times."

"That's the same thing."

"It's really not." Jennifer picks up another croissant, examines it like a museum artifact. "You've failed five times, which means you've tried five times, which means you cared enough to keep going. Do you know how many people give up after attempt one? Most people. Most people don't even GET to attempt one."

"I burned my hand."

"You did. And that's terrible. And we'll deal with that. But Rena—" She holds up the half-eaten croissant. "This is GOOD. It just needs... less time. Maybe different temperature. Trial and error. You're not failing. You're just learning with consequences."

Learning with consequences.

I think about that. About how I spent almost thirty years not trying anything because failure meant proving Mother right. Meant being too weak, too clumsy, too much in la-la land to handle real life.

But trying means failing sometimes. And failing means you tried.

Which means—

"I made croissants," I say slowly. "They're burnt. But I made them."

"You made croissants five times in four days. That's borderline psychotic. Also impressive."

I laugh-sob again. "I wasted so much butter."

"Butter is cheap. Regret is expensive." Jennifer stands up, pulls me to my feet. "Come on. First aid for your hand. Then we're eating every single one of these failures."

"They're burnt."

"They're learning experiences. Also I'm starving."

We spend the next hour at my tiny kitchen table. Jennifer wraps my hand properly—turns out she took a first aid class for youth group, which feels very Jennifer. Then we eat burnt croissants and rank them on a scale of "Mild Disaster" to "Existential Crisis."

"This one," Jennifer holds up a particularly blackened specimen, "looks like my soul before coffee."

I snort-laugh so hard I choke.

We start naming them. Existential Crisis Croissant. Bad Decision Scone (even though they're croissants). Pride Comes Before the Fall Muffin. By 1 AM we're delirious with exhaustion and everything is funny. Jennifer's crying-laughing about the "Regret Pastry" and I'm doubled over about "Hubris Bread" and my hand still hurts but somehow it doesn't matter as much.

"I'm trying again tomorrow," I announce.

"Obviously."

"Will you—" I hesitate. "Would you want to taste-test? Like, be here for Attempt Six? I might need someone to stop me from burning down the apartment."

Jennifer grins. "I thought you'd never ask."

She leaves at 1:30 AM. I clean the kitchen—sort of. There's still flour on the ceiling (how?) and butter on my sock (also how?). My hand throbs. The garbage is full of failed croissants. I'm exhausted.

I'm also lighter than I've felt in weeks.

Before bed, I write in my notebook: "Attempt Six: Saturday 2 PM. Invite Jennifer. Try 400°F instead of 425°F. Remember: Trying five times isn't failure. It's just being stubborn with consequences. Also: buy more butter."

Then I add, because old habits die hard: "Romans 8:1. No condemnation. Not even for burnt croissants. Not even for trying. Especially not for trying."

I fall asleep thinking about the way Jennifer sat down on my kitchen floor without being asked. The way she picked up a burnt croissant and took a bite anyway. The way she said "you've tried five times" like trying was worth something.

The thing nobody tells you about freedom: it includes the freedom to fail.

Over and over and over.

Until you learn.

¹ The difference is intent. One is active choice, the other is passive result. I've been thinking about this a lot. Probably too much. Jennifer says I "philosophize my anxiety," which is accurate but rude.

² The dish towels Mom sent me with Bible verses on them. Currently the one wrapped around my hand says "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Either God has a sense of humor or terrible timing. Possibly both.