This summer, while traveling through New Mexico, I was gifted a beautiful opportunity: to attend a Lunasa (Lammas/Lughnasadh) ceremony held by a wise woman I know. The decision to go wasn’t simple. I debated for quite a while—should I make the long drive? Could I leave the kids? Would it be too much to juggle while on vacation (or let’s be real—a trip—because vacationing with three kids isn’t exactly restful)?
But, as you might imagine, I’m so glad I went.
The ceremony, held on August 1st, was beautiful in many ways—gentle, grounded, and deeply nourishing. One moment in particular stayed with me: a conversation within the group about reclaiming ceremony for ourselves, especially when we didn’t grow up with those practices in our families of origin.
That conversation hit something deep in me.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my oldest child, who is beginning the tender transition into puberty. I’ve been wondering: How do I mark this change in a way that feels meaningful? How do I honor this new chapter in her life?
At the same time, I’ve been feeling a quiet grief. No one in my life ever celebrated or named the transitions I went through—no rites of passage, no meaningful rituals, no spaces held to witness the shifts in who I was becoming. And that absence now feels like a loss; a loss that I recognize as a need needing to be shifted. It has helped me name a need I didn’t realize was so alive in me:
I need ceremony. I need space to honor the transitions in my life and in my family’s life.
Over the past several years, I’ve found gentle ways to bring ceremony into my life—marking the solstices and equinoxes, even here in Southern California where the seasons are more subtle. These moments of intentional reflection and connection have given me something I didn’t know I was missing. They help me feel grounded. Rooted. In rhythm with something larger than myself.
Of course, we still mark the usual milestones—birthdays, school beginnings, holidays. But part of me longs for something deeper. Something more connected to the Earth, and to the unseen threads that tie our lives together. Ceremony that honors where we’ve been, where we’re going, and who we’re becoming.
So I offer this reflection to you, in case it speaks to something in your own heart.
If you’re curious about your own relationship with ceremony—or wanting to explore ways to reclaim it for yourself and your family—here are a few journal prompts to begin with:
- How do I currently hold ceremony for myself and my family throughout the year?
- What transitions or moments in life feel important for me to honor with ceremony?
- How has my relationship with ceremony evolved over time?
Let these questions be an invitation. You don’t need elaborate rituals or formal traditions to begin. Sometimes, the simplest acts—lighting a candle with intention, pausing to breathe at the turn of the season, gathering loved ones to witness a change—can be the most sacred.
Here’s to reclaiming ceremony in ways that feel real, rooted, and resonant.