I Was at the Peak of My Career and Gave It up To Be a Pastry Chef

At 33, I thought I had everything I ever wanted; an intellectually stimulating career, a generous salary and the ability to comfortably live and work in New York-but behind the glossy façade, the stress I was experiencing juggling my enviable career was rising.

It came to a head after an investigative series I was working on for Bloomberg made it out of production.

I had been a key journalist at the outlet for several years and worked across digital, audio and television-even relocating to Washington, D.C., for two years to cover tech policy.

I was told the podcast, which had been months in the making, had just aired, but instead of celebrating, all I could do was run to the bathroom and throw up from the anxiety I had been harboring for longer than I could remember. I later found out the episode was the beginning of an ulcer. Around the same time, I would get hives on my chest and neck when asked to go on air.

In those moments, the only thing that could give me respite were daydreams of the walk-in pantry at my childhood home.

My grandmother was a fine baker, making do with whatever we-a low-income, multi-generation household-had at the time. She showed me the baking ropes, and throughout my life, I always turned back to brownies and cinnamon rolls whenever I felt overwhelmed.

I loved journalism, but baking is what is really authentic to me, and I knew I had to make a change.

I remember being in that bathroom at Bloomberg.

Though in pain, I let my mind wander to the magic of that pantry; with its baking powder, creams and milk bottles neatly stored. I knew that I wanted to go back to that place and how it made me feel, and so little by little, I made arrangements to bid farewell to my high-powered broadcasting job in New York and leave for pastry school in rural France.

Finding My Why Again

Baking brings me alive, and it always has, even if it took me the better part of a decade in boardrooms and studios to understand that.

My great-grandfather was a baker in Mexico, my father one in Chicago. The craft runs through both sides of my family, connecting me to my roots in a way that nothing else ever has. But I just never thought about it as a viable career, not early on anyway.

Growing up in a family of six with entrepreneurial parents, I understood from a young age that I would have to support myself the moment I left the house and seek out a career that could provide the financial security that my parents, though they doted on us, could often not.

And so, I studied accounting and finance-not a path I particularly enjoyed, but a practical one, and one that I could do considering my high grades.

I spent almost five years working as an investment analyst, making six figures, learning the rhythms of a city that runs on money. Though career wins came regularly, it was baking, always, that I turned to when the pressure became too much. Flour and butter kneaded into muffins on a weekend morning were my reset button.

But it was that financial foundation that gave me the confidence to go back to school.

At 26, I enrolled at Columbia University to study public policy, and it was there that everything shifted. The #MeToo movement was cresting, and for the first time, I watched journalism change things. I joined a college paper, interned at CNN, and eventually landed a full-time role at Bloomberg hungry and willing.

For a time, it was everything I had hoped for. I broke important exclusives on issues close to my heart, co-anchored shows, and was doing television hits almost daily.

By any external measure, I had arrived. But somewhere along the way, the work that had once felt galvanizing began to hollow me out. Journalism is grueling and I started to feel the toll of never being able to switch off accumulate.

I developed the sense that I had hit a ceiling. I wasn’t happy anymore, and no other position was going to fix that, despite continuous offers by my editors.

My therapist finally drew the truth out of me. She asked; “If you only had a year to live, what would you do?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, I said I wanted to open a bakery.

Starting Over in France

In late 2025, with my savings and affairs sorted, I handed in my notice, left New York and enrolled at a pastry school in Rouen, France, located northwest of Paris.

Trudging to class at 5 in the morning through blizzards, spending hours on my feet, constantly making mistakes in those first months tested me in ways that Bloomberg never had. There were stretches of real homesickness and doubt, but I kept me going.

I am now coming to the end of a two-month stage at La Boulangerie (Institut National de la Boulangerie), owned by a distinguished pastry chef.

The city itself has been a revelation, full of history and beauty, and a world away from the frenetic pace I left behind. But my doubt and perfectionism have not completely disappeared, however, they have changed shape. I can see now that even the most experienced chefs make mistakes every day, and I know that I can do this.

My fiancé and I have a home in Connecticut. I intend to fix it up and make a baking studio. I want to eventually open a proper storefront, but I want to build this from the ground up, the way my father did, the way my great-grandfather did before him.

Jackie Davalos, 35, is based between the U.S. and France. She is documenting her journey on TikTok and Instagram under @jackiedl.

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This story was originally published June 1, 2026 at 2:00 AM.