Play-Doh & Badassery — A Grief Ritual for the Wildhearted

Let’s be honest: grief is a shape-shifter. It sneaks into the body when you’re doing dishes. It curls up beside you when you finally sit still. And sometimes, it hijacks your head — turning your mind into static and your heart into lead.

So today, I did something ridiculous and holy. I made Play-Doh.

Not the brand-name kind.The kind you make with kitchen magic — coffee, flour, aromatic oil, salt, and some gutsy intention. 'Butter slime' for the broken-hearted. 'Cloud dough' for the emotionally constipated.

It started as a joke, honestly.But there I was, standing in my kitchen, elbows deep in this silky-sweet clay, realizing I was giving my grief some ju-ju magic.

My grief needed shape. It wanted to be held, squished, rolled, pressed.It wanted texture. It wanted scent. It wanted to be real again — not just a shadow in my chest.

So I sculpted a heart.Then a lump.Then something that vaguely resembled a potato.

And you know what? It didn’t matter. Because somewhere between the squishing and the sighing, I started breathing differently.The tension in my shoulders loosened. My thoughts softened. And my grief — that wild, untamable emotion — stopped roaring and started humming.

Here is my 'display' of therapeutic sculpture

That’s the thing about rituals like this — they’re not meant to fix you.They’re meant to befriend the part of you that’s been exiled.The tender, ugly, glorious mess that still wants to belong.

So here’s my invitation: Next time the world feels too much, don’t rush to transcend it.Touch it. Knead it. Give it color and smell and sound.

Make a mess that loves you back.

Because this — this weird, playful, sensual act — is not avoidance. It’s alchemy. It’s how you tell your body, “I’m still here. And I still believe in beauty.”

🖤This ritual is part of my 12 Days of Selfcare Rituals — bite-sized, body-based practices for your wildhood.They’re deliciously simple. They’re fiercely honest. And they’ll remind you that grief deserves to be held.