There’s something deeply human about rituals—those strange, sacred moments we carve out to mark transitions, affirm beliefs, or simply feel connected. I’ve always been fascinated by how rituals act as both anchors and launchpads. They’re the invisible threads that weave us into communities, yet they also give us permission to break free. My own journey with rituals began in a Catholic church, but it’s evolved into something entirely different when I created one for my daughter. Let me tell you why that matters.
When I was 12, I stood in a church, wearing a dress that had once belonged to my sister, who had died of brain cancer. The red sash I’d screen-printed with a dove symbolizing the Holy Spirit felt like a rebellion against the rigid dogma I was being asked to accept. I remember crossing my fingers during the creed, pretending I believed in every word. But here’s the thing: even as I questioned the faith I was being forced to adopt, I understood its power. It wasn’t about the theology—it was about the act of commitment. My sister, who had been the family’s spiritual compass, wanted me to ‘join her in heaven.’ So I did. But I did it for her, not for God. That’s the paradox of rituals—they’re often about others more than ourselves.
Fast forward to my daughter’s 12th birthday. I didn’t want her to go through a confirmation ceremony. Not because I’m anti-religion, but because I wanted her to create her own meaning. We designed a ritual that felt more like a picnic than a sacrament. She chose high tea, tiered platters of cheese, sandwiches, and cake. We set up an altar on the veranda with water, dirt, a candle, and a gum leaf. It was absurd, beautiful, and utterly hers. Why? Because rituals shouldn’t be about enforcing a single narrative—they should be about possibility. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it contrasts with the traditions I grew up with. Back then, the church dictated the script. Now, my daughter wrote her own vows. She even rejected my carefully crafted ones. ‘I want to write my own,’ she said. And she did. It was a small act of defiance, but it felt revolutionary.
Let’s talk about the broader picture. Rituals are not just relics of the past. They’re evolutionary tools. Robert Bellah, the sociologist, argued that rituals helped early humans form bonds, create solidarity, and produce the ‘ecstasy’ of social connection. But here’s what I think: in today’s fragmented world, rituals are more important than ever. We’re all navigating a landscape where community feels optional, and identity is a kaleidoscope of choices. The Amish Rumspringa, where teens explore the outside world before choosing to return to their community, is a perfect example. It’s not about punishment or control—it’s about giving people agency. Similarly, the Vanuatu land divers leaping from towers with vines tied to their ankles aren’t just showing off; they’re proving their courage to the tribe. These rituals aren’t about obedience—they’re about choice.
And yet, there’s a danger in romanticizing the old ways. Take the Dipo ceremony in Ghana, where girls undergo a two-day ritual involving dancing and bathing. It’s a celebration of womanhood, but it’s also a reminder of the weight of tradition. What many people don’t realize is that these rituals can be both empowering and oppressive. They’re not neutral. My daughter’s high tea ritual, on the other hand, was unapologetically secular. It didn’t ask her to renounce anything—it simply asked her to promise to look out for the planet and her people. That’s the beauty of it. It’s a ritual without dogma, a ceremony that honors both the sacred and the mundane.
I’ve noticed a trend in modern parenting: the rejection of inherited rituals in favor of DIY ones. It’s not just about secularism. It’s about giving kids the tools to define their own values. My daughter’s god(less)mothers—three women who had known her since childhood—were there to offer guidance, not to preach. They were her safe harbor. That’s the kind of support system we need more of. In a world where children are often left to navigate adulthood alone, rituals like these are acts of love. They’re not about indoctrination; they’re about connection.
So what does this say about the future of rituals? I think we’re seeing a shift from institutionalized ceremonies to personalized ones. The bar mitzvah and confirmation are still around, but they’re being reimagined. People are creating their own rites of passage—whether it’s a graduation speech, a vow to plant a tree, or a silent meditation on a mountain. The key is that these rituals are owned by the individual. They’re not about fitting into a mold; they’re about carving your own. And that, to me, is the most subversive act of all.
In the end, rituals are about belonging. Whether it’s a 12-year-old girl sipping tea on a veranda or a Vanuatu boy leaping from a tower, the core need is the same: to feel seen, to feel part of something bigger. My daughter’s ritual didn’t have the weight of a church or the authority of a priest. But it had something more valuable—authenticity. And that, I believe, is the future of meaning in a world that’s constantly trying to sell us new ones.
