This one is for every woman who's been trying to make "right now" look like "back then".
The Easter dress doesn't fit anymore. Neither does the life it came from.
Easter Sunday, 2026
I chose something different today.
Not by accident. Not because I had nothing else to do.
I chose to sit with myself.
Soup on the stove. Familiar shows in the background. The kind of quiet you have to build on purpose because it doesn’t come on its own anymore.
And I wonder if you did something similar today. Or if you wanted to — and talked yourself out of it because it felt like giving up on something you couldn’t quite name.
Because here’s what I’ve been feeling lately, and I don’t think I’m the only one:
A low hum. Constant. Underneath everything.
Not loud enough to be called panic. Not quiet enough to ignore. Just... there. The way a refrigerator hums — you don’t notice it until the room goes still and suddenly it’s all you can hear.
It’s in the world right now. In the news. In the way conversations have gotten careful and exhausting. In the strange grief of watching structures you once relied on quietly stop being reliable.
And on a holiday — especially on a holiday — it has a way of rising.
Because holidays are measurement days whether we want them to be or not. They hold up a mirror to where we are versus where we thought we’d be. Who’s at the table. Who isn’t. What the day looks like compared to the version we spent decades building.
Maybe you felt it this morning. That reaching. Trying to locate the Easter you remember — the dresses, the hats, the gloves, the little girls in patent leather shoes with everything just so. The feeling that if you could just recreate the surface of it, some of the solid ground would come back with it.
I did too. I went looking for a photograph of it. ( not the one at the top)
And then I stopped.
Because I realized: none of that belongs to the world we’re living in now. Not wrong. Not bad. Not something to grieve.
Just not here anymore.
And the exhaustion — the particular bone-deep exhaustion of this watching the world reset itself in real time — isn’t really about the world changing.
The world has always changed.
It’s about carrying old expectations into a world that no longer supports them. Reaching for something familiar and finding only air where it used to be. Trying, without even realizing you’re trying, to make right now look like back then.
That’s where the hum comes from.
So today, I stop reaching.
I stay here. I breathe — not as a practice to get right, just slowly enough for my body to remember it’s safe to be still. I will nurture my sould and my body with my homemade chicken soup and let the soup do its quiet work.
Andnow, I want to ask you something.
What would it feel like to give yourself that today?
Not the whole day necessarily. Not a grand gesture. Just one hour — or twenty minutes — where you stop scrolling through other people’s Easter tables and Easter dresses and Easter everything, and you come back to your own room, your own body, your own quiet.
The chamomile tea. The coloring book. The journal nobody will ever read. Whatever small thing makes your shoulders drop half an inch.
Let it ask nothing of you.
There is a lot happening right now. None of it is permanent — not the anxiety, not the uncertainty, not this particular heaviness that seems to be sitting on the whole world’s chest.
Not even this.
Especially not this.
If you celebrate Easter, maybe this is what resurrection looks like in 2026.
Not putting on what used to fit.
Not performing something familiar just because you used to.
But sitting quietly in your own life — breathing your own air — and letting something new take shape inside you.
You don’t have to have it figured out.
You just have to be here.
That’s enough for today.
This is my second Easter writing here.
I went back and read the first one… and I can see it.
The way I’ve changed. The way I think differently now.
The way I meet my own life.
And that does something to me.
It makes me excited for what’s ahead… even with everything that’s swirling around us right now.
If something in this space resonates with you—if you feel yourself in these words—you’re welcome to come a little closer.
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That’s how this space grows. Quietly. Woman to woman.