On Devotion

Finding meaning in the daily and returning to what matters most

Something that has fascinated me endlessly but feels just ever so slightly out of reach is the notion of devotion.

If you want to start with the merriam-webster definition of devotion:

: The act of dedicating something to a cause, enterprise, or activity : the act of devoting. the devotion of a great deal of time and energy. b. : the fact or state of being ardently dedicated and loyal

I’ve often wondered what it truly means to be devoted—not just interested or committed, but deeply aligned in action, spirit, and ritual. There are probably a few categories in my life that fit the bill: motherhood, cooking, self-exploration, the quest to find the best coffee shops in town. Even still, theres a certain level of depth, and resonance that I associate with the concept of devotion that I don’t necessarily feel with the above topics. But maybe I do? I thought I would look back and see where devotion may have been quietly weaving it’s thread through my life all along.

Let’s go way way back, to tiny Danielle playing in her backyard absolutely CONVINCED that there were fairies that lived there, they just didn’t like her enough to make themselves visible. I was enamoured by this book and thought that maybe if I just made it clear to them that I was a cool fun gal they would sneak in a way to say hello. Little did I know at the time this was actually my introduction to rituals and devotion. Seasons changed, we moved around and the fairies never made themselves known to me. As I got older, armed with a library card I started seeking out more in the esoteric, initially prompted by the fantasy fiction I couldn’t get enough of but then turning to real life practices.

Maybe it was the moody misunderstood teenager, or a fascination with things I couldn’t understand I eventually turned my attentions towards Wicca—devouring spells, moon rituals, and guides for how to summon something sacred. But the more I tried shouting into the abyss, I still found that no one was speaking back to me. I could never quite get it right. I’d whisper to the moon, fumble the steps, then retreat back into books. I craved magic, but I didn’t know how to meet it without embarrassment or doubt.

I’ve always wanted to believe in a god—gods, even—or something beyond myself. But I was born with a relentless skepticism and an uncompromising need for hard proof. How do you find evidence of the intangible when you question everything you see? My mind tends to tilt toward the negative, so even if I did witness a miracle, I’d likely write it off as a fluke.

After I ignored my spiritual side for more than a good few years, I eventually started dipping my toes back. Thank the advent of social media, where I started seeing other people experiencing their own journeys searching for their own sense of meaning and belonging. A little bit of astrology, a little human design, some manifestation and oracle cards but even still I couldn’t figure out how to Erkhart Tolle my way to enlightenment.

So where does devotion belong in this? I started seeing how devoted people were to their spiritual journeys, to any of their journeys. Thanks to social media (and yes I know, rose-coloured glasses) I was seeing people with a level of commitment that I could never fathom to stick to. You mean to journal EVERY full moon? You MAINTAIN an altar? You’ve practiced speaking to your guides enough that they SPEAK BACK? As with all other thing in my life (are you seeing a pattern yet?), I saw my lack of commitment as a personal failing, I didn’t deserve to see the results of my imperfect efforts. But somewhere down the line I realized something, perfection was not the gatekeeper of devotion, persistence was.

After a few years of trying to do all the spiritual practices, eat all the healthy food, lift all the heavy weights, work all the long hours and suddenly finding myself in ALL the burnout (again, reader, pattern is clear). And after feeling like I was failing at it all, I realized I needed to change my approach. And no, this was not my idea, I credit this entirely on my friends who forced their kinder voices into their minds as well as actively changing my social media algorithm to people whose lives I resonated with more rather than idealized. I realized if I wanted this to be a part of my life I had to stop trying to shove a square peg through a small round hole.

As much as I want to be the gal who consults her cards for guidance, who collects things for an altar, who prays and convenes with the dearly departed I simply am not. I have had to redefine what the idea of ritual and devotion mean to me. So here we are full circle, with my items that initially were decidedly NOT devotional practices, I am now going to explain how I was wrong and they very much are.

Motherhood is, without question, my most active and all-consuming devotional practice. Not in the performative sense—not as perfectionism (even though yes, I do WANT to be great at it)—but in the daily, unglamorous, deeply-rooted choice to keep showing up. It's in the constant aligning of my actions to my values, in the ego-shedding effort to be fully present with my children (these screens make it HARD), and in the spiritual discipline of loving them for who they are, not who I think they should be. That kind of presence? That’s ritual. That’s reverence. That’s devotion.

Cooking is a less self-sacrificing form of devotion. The chopping, the stirring, the seasoning—each act is small, even mundane, but strung together they become a kind of moving meditation. There is intention and reverence woven into following a recipe, and also just throwing things together to see how they turn out. This is a good reminder to myself to enjoy this more.

Self-exploration might seem self-serving on the surface, but for me, it’s been a search for resonance—for a thread that connects me to something bigger.You name it, I have probably tried it, all the personality quizzes, mental health assessments, astrology, human design, life path numbers, archetypes, attachement types and more. Not because I needed labels, but because I was chasing meaning. And while I haven’t found a single truth to cling to, the very act of seeking, of turning inward and inward again—that’s a form of devotion, too.

The Quest To Find The Best Coffee Shop is probably my favourite ritual. There is a consistent rhythm to it: the discovery, the walk-bys (or social media stalking) to finally stepping inside to feel the space. Going to a new coffee shop, taking in the whole experience, there is a level of reverence about it, at least for me. The beauty, the novelty, the joy packaged up in a ceramic (or paper) mug. It’s a devotion to delight, to tiny moments of presence in an otherwise chaotic world.

Maybe I didn’t recognize my own devotion because it didn’t look the way I thought it was supposed to. It wasn’t altars or elaborate rituals, it was the quiet, consistent practice of paying attention. Paying attention to the ideas and people that light me up. To the way a shared meal can open hearts. To the ongoing work of finding myself, again and again. To the small joy of a perfect, cozy cup of coffee.

These are acts of presence, love, and intention. And maybe that’s what devotion really is: not a performance of spiritual perfection, but the art of returning—again and again—to what truly matters.