When I think about rituals, I’m struck by how they’re often dismissed as relics of the past—outdated traditions clung to by people who don’t understand their purpose. But the truth is, rituals are not about blind obedience or nostalgia. They’re about creating meaning, forging connections, and giving structure to the chaos of life. Take my own experience with my daughter’s coming-of-age ritual. It wasn’t a religious ceremony, nor was it anything remotely formal. Yet, in that sunlit veranda with tiered platters of cheese and cake, something profound happened. It wasn’t the food or the bunting that mattered—it was the act of creating a space where my daughter could declare her own values, her own sense of responsibility to the world. That’s what rituals do: they let people say, ‘This is who I am, and this is what I choose to stand for.’
Let me be clear: I’m not suggesting everyone needs to invent a personalized rite of passage. But what fascinates me is how rituals, whether ancient or modern, serve as emotional anchors. My Catholic confirmation at 12 was a far cry from what Ellie experienced. I remember crossing my fingers during the creed, already doubting the dogma I was being forced to accept. My sister, terminally ill with brain cancer, had pushed me to take the name of Lúcia of Fátima—a woman who endured a life of suffering. It was a sacrifice I made for her, a way to ensure we’d be together in heaven. But Ellie’s ritual? It was hers. She wrote her own vows, chose her own symbols—a bowl of water, a gum leaf, a candle. She didn’t need to pledge allegiance to any deity or doctrine. She simply declared her commitment to ‘look out for the planet and her people.’ And that, to me, is revolutionary.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how rituals evolve. The Amish practice of Rumspringa, where teens explore the outside world before deciding to return to their community, is a stark contrast to the rigid structures of my childhood faith. Similarly, the land-diving ceremonies of Vanuatu or the Dipo rites of Ghana involve physical risks that my confirmation never did. But all these rituals share a common thread: they’re about transition, about marking a shift in identity. And yet, in our hyper-modern world, we’ve lost the art of creating such moments. We’ve replaced sacred spaces with Instagram check-ins, replaced communal bonds with algorithmic validation. I can’t help but wonder: what are we sacrificing in the process? When we abandon rituals, are we also abandoning the very human need to belong, to connect, to find purpose?
Here’s what I think: rituals aren’t about the ceremony itself. They’re about the intention behind it. Robert Bellah’s theory that rituals emerged as a way to reinforce social norms and foster solidarity feels more relevant now than ever. In an age where individualism is celebrated to the point of alienation, we need rituals that remind us we’re not alone. Ellie’s tea party wasn’t just a quirky family event—it was a declaration that even in a secular world, we can create our own sacred spaces. The elements she chose—the water, the dirt, the candle—were symbols of her connection to the earth, to her ancestors, to the unseen forces that bind us all. And when she read her vows, it wasn’t just a performance. It was a promise to herself, to her community, to the fragile planet we all share.
But let’s not romanticize this. Not all rituals are created equal. Some, like the ones tied to oppressive systems or harmful traditions, deserve to be dismantled. The key is intentionality. What matters is that rituals empower, not control. My confirmation was a sacrifice for others, but Ellie’s was a celebration of autonomy. That’s the difference between rituals that stifle and those that liberate. I’ve seen too many people trapped in traditions that don’t align with their values, forced to recite words they don’t believe. Ellie’s ritual was the opposite: it gave her agency, a chance to define her own path without the weight of inherited dogma.
So what does this mean for the future? I suspect we’ll see a rise in personalized, secular rituals—ceremonies that reflect individual values rather than institutional ones. Think of the growing trend of ‘non-religious weddings’ or ‘humanist funerals,’ where people craft their own narratives. This isn’t a rejection of tradition; it’s an evolution. We’re tired of being told how to live, how to love, how to belong. We want rituals that speak to who we are, not who we’re supposed to be. And that, I believe, is the most important takeaway. Rituals aren’t about conformity—they’re about connection. Whether it’s a tea party on a veranda or a midnight dance in the forest, the act of creating something meaningful together is what binds us. In a world that feels increasingly fragmented, that’s a gift worth celebrating.
