the rituals that keep me from disappearing

i’ve always been a little afraid of vanishing, not literally, but in the way life can sometimes swallow you whole, leaving your edges blurred and your voice distant. there are days when i catch myself in the quiet corners of my mind, wondering if i’m still present in my own story or just drifting through the motions of survival. parenthood, work, the endless demands of modern life all conspire to fragment attention, scatter presence, and make the self feel porous.

disappearance doesn’t happen overnight. it’s the slow erosion of rituals, the loss of the small acts that stitch you back to yourself when the world feels too heavy. it’s a fading into obligation and distraction until you forget what your own heartbeat sounds like. the fear is not just of fading away but also of losing the ability to feel whole, to be seen, to exist beyond the surface. what saved me, and what still saves me, are rituals. not grand gestures or moments of spectacle, but small, persistent acts that anchor me in time and space. rituals are not about “doing” more but about being more fully. they are threads woven from history, culture, and personal memory, acts that create a private language of survival and presence. they resist the erasure of self by demanding acknowledgment of the now.

i think of the japanese concept of wabi-sabi, the beauty in imperfection and transience, and how it echoes in these practices. or the west african tradition of komina, where everyday acts are imbued with intention to honor ancestors and ground community. rituals are acts of reclaiming time and selfhood in a culture that tells us to move faster, achieve more, and disappear less.

here are the rituals i return to when the world threatens to dissolve me, not as a prescription but as an invitation to find your own.

1. the daily unmake

at the end of each day, i unmake my bed. it’s a small act but it feels profound. pulling back the duvet, fluffing the pillows, smoothing the sheets, it’s a gesture of undoing and preparing. the bed becomes a physical marker of transition between the chaos of day and the quiet of night. it’s a space i reclaim multiple times a day, a tactile reminder that i can come back to myself. this ritual draws from hospitality traditions where preparing a bed is a silent welcome to rest and renewal. the unmake is a subtle defiance of perfectionism, a reminder that life is messy, lived, and still worthy of softness.