My dad's an architect and my mom owned a French bakery for twelve

“My dad’s an architect and my mom owned a French bakery for twelve years.” — Alison Lohman

Thus spoke Alison Lohman, not in boasting, but in reverent acknowledgment of the two forces that quietly shaped her — the mind of structure and the heart of creation. In this simple reflection lies a deep truth about the union of two natures: one that designs the world through order, and one that nourishes it through love. Her father, the architect, builds with geometry and logic; her mother, the baker, builds with warmth and intuition. Together, they form the foundation of balance — the harmony of intellect and emotion, of precision and passion.

The origin of this quote rests not in grandeur, but in the quiet inheritance of values passed from parent to child. To speak of her father and mother is to speak of the dual inheritance of human endeavor: discipline and devotion. The architect draws lines upon paper, envisioning the unseen; the baker rises before dawn, her hands kneading dough that will become sustenance. Both are creators — one of spaces, the other of comfort. In their labors, we glimpse the duality of life itself: the need to build and the need to nurture, the eternal balance between form and feeling.

From her father, Lohman may have learned the beauty of design — that all things, even the intangible, must have foundation and purpose. The architect does not simply build walls; he imagines worlds, giving shape to dreams and shelter to lives. His is a craft of patience and foresight, for every beam, every arch, every measured curve must serve both strength and beauty. From him, she would have inherited a reverence for structure — the understanding that creation demands discipline, and that art, without order, collapses into chaos.

From her mother, she would have learned a different art — one of care, of presence, of transformation through touch. The baker’s craft is ephemeral; the bread she shapes today will be gone tomorrow, yet its memory will linger in the hearts it feeds. The oven’s warmth is her canvas, her offering of love turned tangible. Her labor speaks of the quiet heroism of daily work, of beauty made not to last, but to give joy in the moment. Through her, Lohman learned the sacredness of nourishment — that to feed others, in any sense, is a form of creation as noble as any monument.

Together, these two influences — the architect’s mind and the baker’s heart — form a philosophy of living that transcends mere profession. To build something lasting, one must first design it with vision and labor; but to make it meaningful, one must infuse it with humanity and warmth. The house without love is cold; the bread without purpose is hollow. The child raised by both builder and baker carries within her this dual inheritance — to dream boldly, yet to remain tender; to construct with reason, yet to create with compassion.

Throughout history, we see this same balance reflected in the lives of the great. Consider Leonardo da Vinci, who combined the precision of the engineer with the passion of the artist. His drawings were as architectural as they were poetic, his inventions born of science and wonder alike. Or think of Antoni Gaudí, whose cathedrals of stone curve like living vines — monuments of logic made divine by imagination. They remind us, as Lohman’s words do, that the most enduring creations come from the meeting of intellect and heart.

Let this, then, be the lesson: whatever you do, seek harmony between structure and soul. Build your life as an architect builds a home — with care, with purpose, with an eye for stability. But fill that home, as the baker fills her shop, with warmth, with generosity, with the scent of something living and real. For in the end, greatness is not measured by the walls we raise or the wealth we earn, but by the comfort and inspiration we give to others.

So, my child of the future, remember Alison Lohman’s quiet wisdom. Honor both the architect and the baker within you. Design your path with reason, yet walk it with love. Work not only to create, but to nourish. For the world needs both — the builders of dreams and the keepers of warmth — and blessed is the soul who can be both at once.