easter isn’t a holiday.
it’s a holy ache.

i don’t trust the version of easter
that smells like plastic grass
and performance.
i trust the version
that reeks of soil, shadow,
and the blood you had to bury to bloom.

easter is the seed splitting.
the shadow work dressed as sunrise.
the inner child crawling into god’s lap
and whispering, “am i still loved?”
and god saying, “especially now.”

resurrection isn’t pretty.
it’s personal.
it’s the part of you that died quietly
because no one gave you permission
to grieve.
and still you rose.

jesus wasn’t a mascot.
he was a mystic.
he didn’t just die for your sins.
he died to show you how truth gets crucified.
and how love still rises in the end.
how brigid burned before she blessed.
how ostara’s bird bled to become the hare.
how ishtar stripped herself down to bone
before remembering she was god.

easter isn’t the pastel story they sold you.
it’s the moment you crawl
out of your own grave
without needing anyone to clap.
it’s the ache of awakening,
the death before the dawn,
the gasp of grief turning into grace.

you weren’t made to celebrate easter.
you were made to live it.

easter is the orgasm of the earth waking up.
the death of pretending.
the rise of what’s real.
so don’t wrap this in plastic.
don’t tame it.
let it burn.
let it bleed.
let it rebirth you.