The Rituals That Remain
I’ve always loved a good ritual. There’s something comforting about repetition — the way lighting a candle, brewing the same cup of coffee, or playing a familiar song can create a little order in the chaos. Rituals are how I’ve made sense of the world for as long as I can remember. They’re tiny ceremonies that say, I’m still here.
After Ken died, I held on to rituals like they were life rafts. I needed something to anchor me when everything else had come undone. I kept the same morning routine we’d shared. I cooked the same meals, listened to the same playlists, and even kept his robe hanging in his bathroom longer than I care to admit. I wasn’t ready to rearrange the world without him in it.
One ritual in particular became part of my healing. Every December, I’d bake treats — intricate boxes packed with a half-dozen different types of homemade treats — and take them to the cancer center where Ken had spent so much time. It was my quiet way of saying thank you to the nurses and staff who had cared for him with such tenderness.
At first, it felt like a sacred act. I’d put on music, pull out the mixer, and bake like it mattered — because it did. It was love in motion. Gratitude made tangible. It was like living inside bliss and purpose while I worked in the kitchen. For five years, I kept that ritual alive. It became a rhythm, a steady pulse in the background of my grief.
But over time, something shifted. One day, standing in the kitchen with flour on my hands, I realized the ritual didn’t feel like mine anymore. It felt like something a previous version of me was doing — someone who still needed to stay connected to that part of the story. I didn’t feel guilty for stopping, but I did feel the weight of what it meant: I was changing.
Grief doesn’t announce its milestones. There’s no ceremony for “the day you stop doing the thing you used to do to survive.” It just happens quietly, the way a habit slips away when you’re not paying attention. I think that’s how healing works — it’s subtle, gradual, and often invisible until you look back and realize the landscape has shifted.
I still love rituals, but they’ve evolved. These days, they look a little different — a morning walk with my joy boy Hudson, lighting a candle when I write, baking for friends just because. They’re gentler, less about holding on and more about being here.
I’ve learned that rituals don’t have to stay the same to still matter. They’re like stories — we keep revising them as we go, editing for who we’ve become. Every ritual I’ve ever loved, from the ones that kept me afloat to the ones I’ve quietly released, has taught me something about love, loss, and the quiet art of carrying on.
And maybe that’s the point. The rituals that remain aren’t about remembering who we were. They’re about honoring who we’re becoming.
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