Easter.

A time of celebration. A time of reflection. A reminder that Jesus died on the cross for our sins—that there is renewal, grace, and new life.

But if I’m being honest… parts of my life don’t feel renewed.

Parts of me still feel stuck in the past.

Co-parenting with someone who carries so much anger is hard. Trying to protect your children from that while also trying to stay calm yourself—it’s exhausting. Being yelled at, called names, and having it happen in front of your kids has a way of pulling you right back into places you thought you had already healed from.

And for some reason, it always seems to happen around the holidays.

Why is that?

Why does something meant to feel joyful come with so much anxiety?

Will there ever be a holiday where we don’t feel nervous about a call, a visit, or what might happen next? Will that nervousness ever fully go away for me and my boys?

When will we be able to just live… without worrying that the past might repeat itself?

And yet—this Easter was different.

It was good. Truly good.

We didn’t have to rearrange our plans to accommodate someone else’s anger. There was no walking on eggshells. No tension hanging over the day.

It was just us.

I set up Easter on my own, like I always do. But this time, it felt different. Not because I had help—but because I realized I didn’t need it.

It was me.

I got to see the boys’ faces light up in the morning. I put batteries in toys, built Legos, read books, and blew bubbles. I heard the constant “Mom, Mom, Mom,” and instead of feeling overwhelmed, I soaked it in.

Every laugh. Every moment.

I didn’t have to share it. I didn’t have to brace myself. I didn’t have to wonder if something would ruin it.

And that… meant everything.

I am so incredibly grateful that God has given me the strength to do this on my own—that I no longer have to beg for help or hope someone shows up the way I need them to.

This year, I didn’t have to convince myself it was a good day.

It just was.

Looking back, I can see how much I used to try to do that—picking out the few good moments, the five minutes that looked perfect, and holding onto them so tightly. Posting them, sharing them, trying to make it seem like everything was okay.

But what people didn’t see were the 20 minutes of yelling before church. The tension in the car. The lectures on the way to family gatherings. The heaviness behind the smiles.

It’s strange, looking back now, how clearly I can see it.

How much I tried to make something broken look whole.

But this year was different.

This year, it was actually whole—in its own quiet, imperfect, beautiful way.

And maybe this is what healing looks like—learning to hold both the broken and the beautiful, and still choosing to keep stitching the threads of us together