A personal journal on rejection, resilience, and choosing to name things honestly

There was a moment in my journey when I learned how sharp words can be—
and how long they can echo.

I once brought my plant-based, keto, diabetic-friendly tiramisu to a chef and some of his friends from all over the world, one is local. I wanted feedback. I wanted to learn. I wanted to grow. Instead, he tasted it, stopped, and without hesitation threw it away.

He yelled:
“It’s not tiramisu.”

That was all.

I cried—not for a day, not for a week—but for months. Not only because my work was rejected, but because everyone around me seemed to agree. The verdict felt final, heavy, absolute. I questioned myself. I questioned my hands. I questioned whether I could reinterpret something so sacred.

For a long time, I carried shame where curiosity once lived.

But creation has a way of returning to you when you are ready.

I went back to the kitchen—not to prove him wrong, but to understand what I was really making. I was never trying to copy tiramisu. I was trying to care for people who couldn’t eat it anymore. People who are diabetic. Keto. Sensitive. Tired of being excluded from pleasure.

So, I leaned into honesty.

I called it what it was:
“It’s Not Tiramisu.”

No disguise. No apology.

Instead of mascarpone, we use a plant-based cream, slow-whipped until it becomes light but grounded. Instead of sugar, we rely on zero calorie maple syrup and an acceptable amount of dates in Keto, carefully balanced so it doesn’t spike, doesn’t overwhelm, doesn’t shout. The bitterness of organic espresso-soaked layers of walnuts as a replacement of “lady finger”, the warmth of raw cocoa, the quiet creaminess that melts instead of clings.

It tastes familiar—but different.
Comforting—but lighter.
Like memory, not replication.

And something unexpected happened.

People understood it.
They appreciated it.
They came back for it.

Today, It’s Not Tiramisu is no longer rejected. It is respected. It is chosen. It is often the dessert people didn’t know they could enjoy again.

Life taught me something important through this moment:

Sometimes rejection is not a verdict on your work—
it is a refusal to see something new.

Not everything needs permission to exist.
Not everything needs to be named according to old rules.

Some things are allowed to stand honestly in their differences.

I no longer cry when I remember that day.
I am thankful for it.

Because if he hadn’t shouted,
I might never have learned to listen to myself.

With love,

Laura