When we talk about rites of passage, we often think of big moments, the milestones that mark change and remind us that time moves whether we’re ready or not. Birthdays, graduations, weddings, and even loss, they all become thresholds between who we were and who we’re becoming.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the number 21, that strange, almost mythical birthday that seems to hold so much weight in our culture. In Australia, turning 21 has long been treated as a symbolic leap into adulthood. For many, it’s celebrated with keys, a nod to the idea of being given the “key to the house,” meaning you’ve earned trust, freedom, and responsibility. It’s an echo of old traditions passed through generations, carried here from colonial roots, and yet somehow it still holds deep meaning for us today.
I don’t have ties to those British origins, but I do feel something stir when I think about rites of passage through the lens of my Mauritian heritage. Mauritius has its own rhythm of transition, quieter, perhaps, but still steeped in ceremony. Family gatherings, prayers, and moments shared around food mark change in ways that feel more spiritual than material. Whether it’s a baptism, a wedding, or a birthday, there’s an unspoken understanding that community and family are witnesses to your becoming. That feels true for me. We may not have one universal ritual for turning 21, but we all recognise that crossing into adulthood deserves to be seen, held, and celebrated.
As a mother, I’ve had the privilege of watching my eldest son grow through so many seasons already, each one a rite of passage in its own right. The first day of school. The awkward and challenging in-between years. The quiet independence that comes with finding your own path. Parenting has a way of turning these milestones into mirrors, each one reflecting the passing of time not just for our children, but for ourselves.
This birthday, though, feels different. Because as my eldest son turns 21 at the start of November, it will mark not only his passage into full adulthood, but mine too. I was 21 years old when he was born. Sitting in this time of reflection, I can see just how much I’ve grown and changed in those 21 years of motherhood. Seeing him now, confident, capable, and carving out his own life, brings a deep awareness of how young I once was, but also how much knowing I already carried.
I chose to fall pregnant.
I chose to become a mother.
I chose him.
He was so wanted, so deeply loved before I even held him in my arms. And though I didn’t know then what kind of woman I would become, that love has shaped every version of me since.
There’s a moment in every parent’s life when you realise your role is shifting. You move from guide to observer, from protector to supporter. It’s both beautiful and disorienting. Each of my son’s milestones has been a mirror held up to my own evolution, showing me how motherhood has stretched, softened, and transformed me over two decades.
These transitions are never one-sided. Every rite of passage our loved ones experience calls something forward in us too. As my son celebrates his 21st birthday, it won’t just be his coming of age, it will be another quiet shift in my own. A reminder that time keeps asking us to let go and begin again, over and over.
In modern life, we rush through these seasons, rarely stopping to mark them. We celebrate birthdays with candles and cake, but often skip the deeper ritual, the pause to reflect on what has changed, what’s been learned, and who we’re becoming. I’ve come to see that honouring rites of passage doesn’t have to be elaborate. It can be as simple as naming the moment:
“This is an ending.”
“This is a beginning.”
“This is who I am now.”
For me, that’s what this 21st milestone represents, a reminder of how vital it is to acknowledge change, to bear witness, and to hold space for growth, both in ourselves and in the people we love.
As my eldest son steps into this new chapter, I’m deeply aware of how many versions of him I’ve already met, and how many versions of myself I’ve become in the process. There’s grief in that, yes, but also immense gratitude. These passages remind us that life is not linear; it’s a cycle of constant transformation.
So perhaps the invitation is this: to celebrate not just the obvious milestones, but the subtle ones too, the quiet endings, the brave beginnings, the moments in between.
I invite you to take a moment to pause and notice the seasons of your own life.
- What changes are unfolding around you, or within you, right now?
- Who in your world is crossing a threshold, and how might you honour that with them?
- What would it look like to mark your own transitions, not with grand gestures, but with intention, presence, and gratitude?
And maybe, reach out to someone who is in a season of change. Celebrate them. Bear witness to their becoming.
Because every rite of passage, big or small, deserves to be seen.
