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Whenever we stay at my in-laws’ house, my mother-in-law performs a ritual so subtle that it would be easy to miss. Before bedtime, she slips a few bay leaves beneath my husband’s pillow. It’s something she has done since he was a child, something so routine to her that even he doesn’t know why it began. He only knows that it has always been there—silent, fragrant, and unquestioned.
Bay leaves are most familiar to us as a culinary staple, tucked into soups and stews and removed before serving. But long before they were a kitchen essential, bay leaves carried symbolic weight across cultures. In ancient Greece and Rome, bay laurel was associated with protection, wisdom, and victory. Laurel wreaths crowned poets and warriors alike, believed to bring clarity of mind and ward off harm. In folk traditions across Europe, the Middle East, and South Asia, bay leaves were used to repel bad dreams, encourage restful sleep, and guard against illness or misfortune.
Placing bay leaves under a pillow is one of those old customs that often survives without explanation. It was believed to promote peaceful dreams, calm anxious thoughts, and protect sleepers—especially children—from unseen dangers in the night. For a mother, especially in generations when medicine and certainty were less accessible, such rituals were acts of love disguised as superstition. They were small ways of exerting control over an unpredictable world.
What makes this gesture especially poignant is its persistence. Even now, long after her son has grown and built a life of his own, she continues the practice. Perhaps she no longer remembers where it came from. Or perhaps she does, but sees no need to explain something that was never meant to be logical. Some traditions are not passed down through stories, but through repetition.
There is something deeply human about this quiet inheritance. The bay leaves under the pillow are not about belief as much as they are about care. They are a reminder that love often expresses itself in rituals so ordinary they feel invisible. And maybe that’s why it’s hard to ask about them. Naming a ritual sometimes breaks its spell.
In the end, the reason may matter less than the meaning. A mother ensuring her child sleeps safely, even now. A habit rooted in history, memory, and tenderness. A few simple leaves, carrying generations of unspoken hope beneath a pillow.
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