Ain't Musing Around

My relationship with rituals is complicated.

Take morning coffee. I resisted upgrading from my clunky but reliable Mr. Coffee, a relic inherited from a coworker in the aughts, to a modern espresso machine with a milk steamer. The espresso machine felt like too much maintenance, too precious, too… ritualized. But now? I'm a convert. The grinding of beans, the scoop and tap, the Fitz & Lloyd flat cup with its butterfly-and-poppy motif (a gift from my sister), the swirl of foam— it’s become a cherished process. Instead of a cup of bland caffeine, I'm savoring the chocolate notes of espresso while a pile of laundry haunts me. What I thought would trap me in a precarious relationship with a fussy machine has become grounding. That’s the paradox of ritual: it can feel like control, or it can feel like care.

I’m neurodivergent, and for me rituals walk a fine line between soothing and suffocating. My ADHD brain resists rigid routines but benefits from reduced friction. At night Alexa dims the lights, cueing me to unwind, a ritual that helps avoid overstimulation. Without it, the glare overstimulates me, my body tired, my brain wired. These kinds of sensory-friendly habits are small but vital, and they remind me that rituals can be about gentleness, not control. (For anyone curious, this article on masking and burnout offers some helpful insight into why sensory-friendly rituals matter.)

I'm learning that when I assign meaning, even a simple coffee or low light-scene ritual becomes soothing. I’m still discovering which routines I’ve elevated into rituals: comforting, grounding, small joys.

Part of my complicated relationship with rituals comes from growing up in a religious cult where unsanctioned rituals weren’t allowed.

In our house, Halloween meant dinner out with the family. The point was to avoid the nuisance, and spiritual jeopardy, of candy-seeking children in costumes. Luckily, I loved fancy meals, and the ritual of eating out never felt like missing out. At school we still went to the pumpkin patch, picked out our squash, and roasted seeds. It was autumnal, pragmatic, seasonal—but not spooky. These gray zones made growing up in a cult just a little less culty.

Rituals also showed up in smaller ways. My dad has one at restaurants: asking the server for a half-dozen condiments so he can concoct his own tableside remoulade. He always begins politely, “At your earliest convenience, may I trouble you for some…” It’s soothing for him, and a little embarrassing for us. My sister and I have since imposed a rule: three extra condiments max.

That’s the thing about rituals, they can be funny, grounding, odd, inherited, or self-invented. They connect us to memory, place, or identity.

This month, I’m making a point to ask neighbors about theirs. I invite you to do the same. Ask someone which rituals they’ve stopped, started, or redefined. If you’re introverted, leave an anonymous note: Tell me about your rituals. In October, that’s practically autumn’s version of a Valentine.

I used to think rituals had to be imposed, written on stone tablets, or inherited. But now I can see the power in choosing your own, revisiting old ones, or inventing new ones. Rituals don’t need to be exacting. They can be tiny condiment-bottle rebellions against chaos, or aromatic anchors that remind us we matter, we're safe, we're present.

And while we’re in October, let’s notice the rituals around us: National Hispanic Heritage Month, National Disability Employment Awareness Month, Rosh Hashanah, Halloween. Some rituals are joyful and chosen; others are unfairly attacked. 

The Gal Pal community knows inclusion is more than access — it’s about valuing the unique voices, abilities, and intersections of all our neighbors. This month, let’s honor the rituals that center us, the ones we choose, revisit, or invent. 

‍

In Ain’t Musing Around, we muse together: noticing what matters and creating space for curiosity, joy, and connection, because rituals, like ideas, are better when shared.

‍

Hasina is a generalist with a specialist’s attention span. A certified project manager, communications strategist, and former pop music manager, she is also a neurodivergent storyteller who believes most human systems could be improved—with more honesty, more humor, and a few well-placed Venn diagrams. She approaches complex communications challenges with one guiding principle: understand deeply and explain simply. Hasina is committed to making professional spaces more inclusive—one impactful project, one empowering message, and, when necessary, disrupting outdated stereotypes (one or several at a time).

www.ThePollinatorGroup.com

‍