Releasing What Dims the Light

Why Ritual Matters (and Why It Isn’t Something to Fear)

Before I share this release ritual, I want to pause for a moment and talk about ritual itself.

Ritual is not witchcraft.
It’s not spells.
It’s not something dark, evil, or opposed to God.

Ritual is something humans have practiced for as long as we’ve been conscious.

In the Christian faith, we participate in ritual all the time:

• getting on our knees to pray
• folding our hands
• crossing ourselves in the Catholic tradition
• lighting candles
• communion
• baptism

These are not magic acts.
They are physical expressions of inner commitment.

A ritual simply says:
“This matters to me.”

It creates a moment of pause.
It grounds us in intention.
It marks a transition.

In many ways, ritual is an exclamation point — not the work itself, but the moment we say yes to the work.

It’s similar to the way a New Year can feel like a fresh start. Nothing magically changes at midnight — but something in us shifts when we consciously choose a direction and name it.

A release ritual is not about asking God to do something for us.
It’s about showing God — and ourselves — that we are serious.

For me, a full moon release is a way of letting go so I can create space for what I want to grow.
It’s not about abandoning responsibility or numbing awareness.
It’s about balance, clarity, and care for my nervous system and my spirit.

Releasing something does not mean rejecting truth or justice.
It means choosing not to live in a constant state of tension, fear, or self-soothing that no longer serves me.

You can think of this as:

• setting an intention
• making a commitment
• consecrating a new direction
• or simply saying out loud: “This is who I am becoming.”

However you frame it — prayer, intention, release, offering — it is an act of honesty and devotion.

 

A Simple Full Moon Release Ritual You Can Make Your Own

If you’ve never done a full moon release ritual before, I want to demystify it and make it approachable.

For me, the ritual doesn’t start the night of the full moon.
It often begins a week or so before.

I start asking gentle, honest questions—not from judgment, but from curiosity:

What is blocking me right now?
What is dimming my light?
What is costing me energy, clarity, or connection?

I don’t force answers. I let them surface.

This time, five things became very clear for me.

The first was insulating myself—wrapping myself in safety because of insecurity.
Not insecurity about who I am, but insecurity around things that feel tender and private. That insulation has kept me safe… and also separate.

The second was isolation.
I’ve been hiding out at home because it feels safe. Understandable—but safety can quietly turn into shrinking.

The third was continuing to use alcohol as the cornerstone of my work’s messaging.
Not because alcohol is the problem—it never has been—but because it’s been the attention-getter, the calling card. I’m releasing that. My work is bigger than that story now.

The fourth was my reliance on sugar to soothe.
Things feel stressful. The world feels angry. Sugar has become a quick comfort—but it’s costing me mental clarity, energy, and vitality. I don’t care about aesthetics. I care about feeling strong, clear, and alive enough to do the work I’m here to do.

And the fifth was my need to stay constantly plugged into political media.
I’m not abandoning the fight. I’m not disengaging from what matters.
But hearing the same messaging repeated all day long is numbing me. So I’m releasing that during my workday to create space to serve women more deeply and intentionally.

Once I’m clear, I write each one down in three parts:

• what I’m releasing
• why I’m releasing it
• and what I want to replace it with

That last part matters most.

This isn’t about cutting something out.
It’s about choosing what comes in instead.

Then, on the night of the full moon, I take that paper and fold it away from me—a physical symbol of shedding, letting go.

I burn the paper safely, and as it burns I name—simply—the things I’m releasing.
I don’t reread the whole story. Just the essence.

When the paper becomes ash, I return it to the earth.
So there is no clinging.
No taking it back.
No revisiting it.

It’s released.

That’s my ritual.

Yours can look however you want.

You don’t have to burn anything.
You don’t have to write anything.
You can walk under the moon and speak out loud.
You can pray.
You can sing.
You can sit quietly and listen.

You can dance naked in the moonlight if that feels right to you.
You can chant.
You can beat a drum.
You can simply breathe and say, “I’m ready to let this go.”

The form is optional.

What matters is this:

Be clear about what you’re releasing.
Be honest about what it’s costing you.
Be intentional about what you want to replace it with.

Not:
“I want to lose 15 pounds.”

But:
“What am I holding onto that keeps those 15 pounds here?”

Not:
“I want to stop drinking.”

But:
“I don’t want to be numbed anymore. I want to feel clear, fresh, and present for my life.”

That clarity—that truth—is the ritual.

Everything else is just the container.

 

Full Moon Release Ritual

Tonight, under the full moon, I release what no longer serves my light.

I release using alcohol as a defining message in my work.
It was never the antagonist.
My light is bigger than that story now.

I release my addiction to political media and constant outrage.
It numbs me.
It drains my energy without offering action or healing.

I release sugar as a nightly escape.
I choose strength, vitality, and clarity
so my light has the energy to do its work.

I release the safety of isolation.
I choose connection, community, and presence—even when the world feels cruel.

I release fighting hate with hate.
I choose love as resistance.
Light as leadership.
Compassion as courage.

May what I release create space.
May what I choose strengthen my light.
May I remember—again and again—
that only love drives out darkness.

 

P.S. If this doesn’t find you on the exact night of the full moon, that’s okay. The potency of a full moon lingers, and life doesn’t always move on a calendar. Another full moon comes in roughly 28 days—because nature is generous like that.

You’re never late—light works in cycles, not deadlines.