When my daughter turned one, we bought her a birthday cake.
It was a teddy bear.
Cute, store-bought, and totally fine.
But as I looked at it, something stirred in me.
I thought, “I could have made that… if only I knew how.”
So I signed up for evening classes in novelty cake making.
And I loved it.
The process.
The creativity.
The calm in the chaos of early motherhood.
Turns out, I was pretty good.
The kids noticed—and started requesting the wildest birthday cakes you can imagine.
Postman Pat
Little Mermaid
Snow White plus the seven dwarfs. (I called a halt on that one!)
Whatever their little imaginations dreamed up, I’d try to make it in sponge and sugar and sugarpaste.
Word got around—especially at our local squash club.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just a mum with a piping bag.
I had paying customers.
And then, life threw a bomb.
My husband—fast becoming an ex—slid into alcoholism.
It was awful.
Zero earnings from him to support the kids. Constant stress. Kids watching everything.
And I had a choice.
Stay and hope for change that might never come.
Or leave, protect my children, and figure the rest out later.
I chose the latter.
Thankfully, between my day job and the extra money from cakes, we just about got by.
Single mum. Bills to pay. Cakes to bake.
That season of life taught me more than any course ever could.
About money.
About survival.
About confidence.
About pricing.
About grit.
Eventually, I trained as a life and business coach too.
And one day, I woke up with a lightbulb moment:
What if I could help other cake decorators turn their skills into a sustainable business?
That’s what I do now.
Because that teddy bear cake I didn’t make?
It set off a chain reaction I never saw coming.
K.