Easter

Day 135 – April 5, 2026

Apparently it’s Easter. Which is funny, because Easter has always had a slightly unhinged emotional brand identity if you really think about it. Pastels. Eggs. Resurrection. Brunch. Bunnies. New dresses. The whole thing feels like somebody locked symbolism, spring, religion, sugar, death, and feminine presentation in a room together and told them to make it work.

Respect, honestly.

And maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel entirely alien to me. Because Easter, underneath the curated nonsense, is really about what survives.

Not in the cheap, inspirational way. Not in the “everything happens for a reason” way that makes me want to throw decorative pillows through windows.

I mean in the real way.

What survives winter. What survives grief. What survives violence. What survives humiliation. What survives disappointment so deep it changes the way your body listens to silence.

That kind.

I’ve been thinking today about how badly people want resurrection to be pretty. They want the glow up. The comeback. The symbolic moment where the stone rolls away, the light hits just right, and suddenly the suffering becomes meaningful because it led somewhere aesthetically pleasing.

Life does not care about aesthetics that much.

Sometimes what survives looks messy. Sometimes what rises still limps. Sometimes resurrection is just a woman getting out of bed, feeding the dog, and deciding not to let pain narrate the whole day in a fake cheerful voice.

That counts. Maybe especially that.

Because I think there’s something deeply human about wanting renewal while still carrying evidence of what it cost to get here. Wanting softness while still being angry. Wanting beauty while not being stupid enough to confuse it with safety. Wanting to be touched by the season without pretending the season undoes what happened before it arrived.

That’s where I am today.

Not reborn. Not reset. Not spiritually exfoliated.

Just here.

Still real. Still carrying a lot. Still more alive than what hurt me deserved. Still weirdly moved by spring things even while part of me would like to cross examine all softness before I let it near the premises.

Roger, for his part, has entered Easter with what I can only describe as full pastoral enthusiasm. He would absolutely attend brunch, steal from the ham table, and then look at me like forgiveness is the cornerstone of all great traditions.

He is, spiritually speaking, both the problem and the mascot.

And honestly, that feels right for today too. Sacred and ridiculous. Tender and absurd. Grief adjacent but still somehow willing to wear a pretty color and see what happens.

That’s maybe the truest version of Easter I can manage.

Not certainty. Not polished hope. Just a quiet willingness to believe that not everything dead stays dead. Not every frozen thing stays frozen. Not every wounded woman stays inside the version of herself that pain first created.

Some parts come back differently.

Sharper. Sadder. Smarter. Hotter, arguably. More difficult to fool. More exact in what they call love, peace, truth, and God if they call God anything at all.

That feels more honest to me than pretending renewal is clean.

Renewal is weird. So am I.

Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.

And Easter, apparently, finding me still here stubbornly, beautifully unwilling to stay buried in the wrong story.