How Ceremony Found Me
I did, sort of, become a wedding officiant accidentally.
Although maybe it's more accurate to say I had a dream and decided, why wait?
The truth is, ceremony found me long before I ever signed the paperwork.
I've always been drawn to ceremony and ritual. They are a big part of what kept me tethered to church long after I'd decided the book of stories was, well... mostly a book of stories.
But I loved what happened around those stories.
I think I first discovered the power of ceremony while preparing for my own First Communion. It wasn't just about wearing a white dress or standing in church. I had a speech to memorize. I learned how to say the Mass. I practiced reading in front of others—skills that felt incredibly important at the time and ones I would rarely ever use again.
Although, looking back, life has a funny way of preparing us for things we don't yet understand.
More than anything, I remember the feeling.
I remember knowing this wasn't just another Sunday. Something important was happening. A moment was being marked. My family would gather. I would step into something new.
It was my first experience of ceremony—the first time I understood that some moments deserve to be witnessed.
Years later, I found something else in church: community.
In my early high school years, I belonged to a youth group. I have wonderful memories of Sunday evenings spent listening to someone strum a guitar while we sang songs about Christ, love, and friendship.
Monday mornings, however, were a different story.
At school, none of us were really friends outside those church walls. Not because anyone was unkind—we simply had different lives.
Still, I kept going.
As I grew older, I found myself believing less in the literal stories and more in what gathered people together.
I loved the rituals.
I loved the seasons.
I loved that people stopped their busy lives to celebrate, grieve, welcome, bless, and remember.
I loved ceremony.
Then my children were born.
Becoming a parent was one of those experiences that made me think there simply had to be something bigger than us. Something mysterious. Something sacred.
So I dressed each of my babies in white for their baptisms. Yes, even my two boys wore little white bonnets. (My daughter, of course, wore a ridiculously long gown.) Water was poured over their tiny heads as my family gathered around us.
I knew, even then, that ceremonies like these weren't just about religion.
They were about bringing people together.
They gave us a reason to pause. To witness. To celebrate. To mark that life had changed forever.
As my children grew and we homeschooled through First Communion, I found myself drifting further from the teachings than ever before.
We'd read parts of the preparation book, skip entire sections, and every so often I'd simply say,
"I'm not sure that's the most loving response."
By the time Confirmation came around, I hadn't realized just how far I'd wandered from organized religion.
Then one evening, while picking my children up from youth group, I watched a skit performed by the students.
That was the moment I knew.
I couldn't bring my children back.
Walking away from church also meant walking away from the community I'd depended on, and I grieved that loss more than I expected.
So I built new communities instead.
Art classes.
Swim team.
Dance.
Gymnastics.
Probably a dozen other activities I've since forgotten.
But what I still missed were the rituals.
The ceremonies.
So we created our own.
Holiday books we read every year.
Favorite movies.
Christmas Eve pajamas.
And our legendary speed trick-or-treating—which began as a completely accidental strategy for squeezing every last piece of candy out of a two-hour Halloween window and somehow became an annual tradition.
Then, somehow, everyone grew up.
I still don't understand how two decades disappear so quickly. Surely if I click my heels three times, we'll all be back in the backyard playing hide-and-seek?
My children didn't want to give up our traditions any more than I did.
Life simply got in the way.
It's hard to exchange Christmas Eve pajamas when someone is serving in the Navy—or the Air Force—or when your children are married, living in different time zones, and creating traditions with families of their own.
Which made me wonder...
What happened to ritual?
What happened to ceremony?
Discovering Paganism and then Shamanism felt less like changing paths and more like remembering one I'd always been walking.
I realized ceremonies were never really about white dresses or tax breaks.
They're about helping us notice.
Helping us transition.
Helping us remember that this moment is different from the one before it.
Our nervous systems understand ritual. They settle into it. They recognize that something meaningful is happening.
Looking back, becoming a wedding officiant wasn't accidental at all.
It was simply the next ceremony waiting for me.
From my First Communion, to baptizing my children, to creating traditions around our kitchen table, ceremony has quietly shaped my life. I just didn't have the words for it until much later.
Today, whether I'm officiating a wedding, leading a blessing, holding a seasonal gathering, or helping someone create a ritual that's entirely their own, I know this much:
The ceremony isn't the point.
The meaning is.
Ceremony gives us permission to pause. To witness. To celebrate. To grieve. To begin again.
It reminds us that our lives are made up of moments worth marking—and that none of us has to walk through life's biggest transitions alone.
If you're looking for someone to help create a ceremony that's authentic, deeply personal, and filled with intention, I'd be honored to help.