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The Rites We Missed, The Rites We Need.
The first time I got my period, I went to see my mom—red-cheeked and embarrassed.
I had only heard about how burdensome the moon cycle would be for the rest of my life.
“This time of the month,” as my dad used to say.
“Oh, she has her ragnagna,” he’d add—a French slang word that carried annoyance and dismissal.
My mom handed me a pad and asked if I needed help. I said no. No way was I going to let her show me how this was done. Surely, it wasn’t rocket science.
I went into the bathroom, opened the package, and stuck it on the wrong side—the sticky part against my skin.
There was no guidance. No ceremony. No space to honor this new phase of my life. Only bad stories that left me ashamed of womanhood, convinced my body was something to hide.
A missed rite of passage.
A missed opportunity for connection and growth.
Most of the women I speak with share the same story. They, too, felt unsupported—certainly not empowered—by their first period.
How did you experience yours? Was it empowering? Or discouraging?
What if we had been supported through this process? What if we had been shown the beauty and power of our cycles—a rhythm that gives us both expansion and rest, creation and release? What if we had understood early on that our cycle connects us to creativity in every form?
Later, I lost my mother. I was 26—too young.
There were no friends around who had gone through the same. No circle to help me understand this unraveling. Losing a parent is a rite of passage. Yet until you experience it, you can’t know how it will shape you.
But one thing is certain: when you lose the one who gave you life, who shaped your early years, who—whether you liked it or not—passed down values and guidance, there is a hole in the heart. An absence of unconditional love.
What if I had been supported through that process? What if I had been surrounded by a circle of loved ones saying: Yes, this is hard. You will crumble. But you are not alone. We’ve been there. We are here to hold you when you fall and to lift you when you’re ready to stand in your new reality.
Then came motherhood.
I had just moved to Australia, three months before my first son was born. Far from home, from family, from guidance.
I read the books, went to antenatal classes, listened to endless advice—most of it unwanted. Yet everything I was told seemed to go against my intuition.
I wanted to birth naturally. I wanted to co-sleep. I wanted unhurried time with my newborn. But the world around me told me otherwise: hospitals, rules, “safe practices,” careers to return to quickly.
I’m grateful I followed my instincts in some ways, even though I gave in to societal pressure in others.
Still, I felt that same loneliness within those moments: that these pivotal moments in my life lacked something.
Support. Love. Understanding. A space to slow down and decide: Who do I want to be in this transition?
The more I am learning about rites of passage, the more I feel the holes I’ve carried within me—the thresholds that were never marked, never witnessed.
Rites of passage have existed for thousands of years across the globe. Different cultures, different traditions, but always the same intention: to hold and guide someone as they step into a new stage of life.
These rituals share common threads:
>> Separation: leaving behind the old identity for a time of retreat.
>> Challenge: tasks of endurance, teaching strength of body and mind.
>> Envisioning: letting go of what no longer serves, imagining who we want to become.
>> Recognition: being seen, celebrated, and honored by the community.
>> Integration: returning as a new self, carrying wisdom, uplifting others in the process.
Without rites of passage, our transformations feel lonely. Our growth feels hidden instead of witnessed.
Now, I stand at the threshold of another rite: perimenopause.
I feel the call to create space for this messy, in-between stage—the cocoon where nothing is certain and everything is shifting. To honor the tears, the laughter, the uncertainty, and the beauty that is born when we are supported.
Because that is what rites of passage do:
They reframe the narrative culture has given us—one that often denies women’s well-being.
They bring community back together.
They hold us in the rough moments and celebrate us in our rebirths.
They give us permission to become—not out of duty or expectation, but from the heart.
They are cocoons of transformation.
Slow. Tender. Challenging. Messy.
And, ultimately, liberating.
And when the butterfly emerges—it is breathtaking.
Imagine a world where communities gather not to judge or rush, but to hold, support, and honor each other. How much easier, richer, and more joyful would life be?
I am ready to bring rites of passage back into the modern world—adapted, safe, supportive, and deeply transformative.
If you are standing at your own threshold—whether stepping into parenthood, grieving a parent, moving through perimenopause, or guiding your child into their own journey to adulthood—know this: you do not have to walk it alone.
Life’s transitions were never meant to be solitary. They were meant to be held, witnessed, and celebrated.
When we reclaim rites of passage, we reclaim the community, the support, and the wisdom that make transformation not just bearable, but beautiful.
And in that sacred space, we are not just becoming—we are becoming together.
Whatever form it takes, honoring life’s thresholds allows us to move forward with clarity, courage, and presence. We do not journey alone. By reclaiming rites of passage in modern life, we reclaim connection, witness, and sacred support—transforming the passage itself into something beautiful, intentional, and deeply human.
Step fully into your threshold. Step fully into becoming.
~
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