There’s something deeply human about rituals. They’re the invisible threads that stitch us to our past, to each other, and to the world we’re trying to build. When I read about Jackie Bailey’s creation of a coming-of-age ritual for her daughter, it struck me how rare it is for modern parents to design such moments with intention. In a world obsessed with efficiency and outcomes, we’ve forgotten that growing up isn’t just about milestones—it’s about meaning. Bailey’s story isn’t just about her daughter, Ellie; it’s a mirror held up to all of us, asking: What if we stopped treating adolescence as a phase to survive and started seeing it as a sacred act of becoming?
Let’s start with the obvious: rituals are everywhere. From the Amish Rumspringa, where teens test the boundaries of their community before committing to it, to the Vanuatu land divers leaping from 30-meter towers with vines tied to their ankles, these acts aren’t just quirky traditions. They’re declarations of identity. What makes this particularly fascinating is how they force participants to confront mortality, community, and their own agency. The Krobo people’s Dipo ceremony, with its ritual baths and dances, isn’t just about puberty—it’s about transforming a girl into a woman who carries the weight of her ancestors’ stories. And yet, in the West, we’ve reduced coming-of-age to a party with a cake and a few awkward speeches. Where did the magic go?
Bailey’s approach for Ellie is radical in its simplicity. No dogma, no creed—just a sunlit afternoon, a white dress, and a table full of cheese and tea. But this isn’t laziness. It’s a deliberate rejection of the idea that rituals must be tied to rigid belief systems. She wanted Ellie to feel the possibility of being part of something bigger, not the burden of inherited narratives. I find this especially poignant because so many of us grew up in systems that demanded conformity. My own confirmation, for instance, was a performance of faith I didn’t fully believe in—a moment of sacrifice for family, not self. What if rituals could be spaces where we’re free to choose, not forced to obey?
Here’s the deeper question: Why do we need rituals at all? Robert Bellah’s theory about rituals as evolutionary tools for social cohesion feels more relevant now than ever. In a fragmented world, where social media replaces face-to-face connection, we’ve lost the collective joy of song, dance, and shared meaning. Bailey’s altar—water, dirt, a candle, a gum leaf—wasn’t just symbolic. It was a reminder that even in secular spaces, we can create sacredness. The act of gathering, of enacting a shared story, is what binds us. And yet, how many of us have let our rituals wither into passive consumption of content instead of active participation in life?
Ellie’s god(less)mothers, chosen for their presence rather than their titles, highlight another layer: the need for mentorship that isn’t hierarchical. These women weren’t there to lecture or judge. They were there to hold space, to say, ‘You don’t have to figure this out alone.’ This feels like a blueprint for modern relationships. In a culture that prizes individualism, we’ve forgotten that growth is a communal act. The author’s decision to let Ellie write her own vows isn’t just about autonomy—it’s about trust. What if we stopped treating young people as blank slates and started seeing them as co-creators of their own meaning?
The final image of Ellie’s ceremony—a picnic with ham and cheese, a promise to care for the planet and each other—feels almost subversive. It’s a reminder that rituals don’t have to be grand or dramatic. They can be intimate, messy, and deeply human. As we watch the world unravel under the weight of climate collapse and political polarization, maybe what we need isn’t more dogma or spectacle. Maybe we need more Ellie rituals: small, intentional acts of connection that remind us we’re not just individuals, but threads in a tapestry. What if the future of humanity depends on our ability to create new rituals—not to control, but to connect?
