Call me crazy.
When my three kids were young, I asked them to fill out a 360-feedback form to evaluate my mothering. Yes, apparently I took my executive coaching practice a little too far.
I am happy to report that the results were glowing. Except for one failing score: “Creates family ritual.”
They were right.
I grew up steeped in Jewish ritual. And somewhere along the way, I abandoned it — like a hand-me-down dress that never quite fit, so I tucked it away in the back of the closet.
Too many of my early associations felt heavy.
Sabbath observance laced with loneliness.
Synagogue protocol wrapped in boredom.
Hanukkah candle lighting shadowed by the violent end of its historical tale.
So I let it all go.
But I hadn’t replaced those inherited rituals with anything new. I had cleared the altar… and left it empty.
And here’s what I’ve come to understand:
Ritual isn’t about obligation.
It’s about structure in a chaotic world.
It steadies us. It marks transitions so we don’t flit unconsciously from one thing to the next. Ritual creates meaning where otherwise there would be only motion.
Neuroscience tells us that predictable, repeated experiences calm the nervous system. The brain relaxes when it knows what comes next. At its core, ritual soothes the body.
After all, what would life be without birthday cake and candles?
Without the pomp and circumstance of graduation?
Without that necessary moment of silence?
Without the wedding toast?
Without gratitude whispered before a meal?
Ritual says: This matters. This moment is worth pausing for.
So I’m working on my 360 feedback.
I bring my love coffee in bed every morning. It’s more than a habit — it’s an act of intentional, loving attention.
I bake a lot of two-tiered birthday cakes.
I burn sage to purify my environment.
And yes—I facilitate plant medicine ceremonies, creating safe spaces with sacred rituals, where transformation can unfold.
Because I no longer want an empty altar.
