It’s Easter Sunday today, and like on most holidays that were big when I was growing up, I can’t help but reminisce about the past and simpler times. The person in the scary bunny costume. Waking up to hunt for eggs and candy. Knowing that Mom would always be there, and my brother and sister would be there to share. Even when we had to let my sister find the “Golden Egg.”

That frustrated me at the time, but now a half-century or more later, I miss it. We lost my sister two and a half years ago. My brother and I aren’t very close. And Mom’s had her health challenges over the last year. Reminiscing about simpler times is certainly understandable.

I remember the smell of maple syrup wafting from the kitchen while my mom made pancakes shaped like bunnies, or at least her best attempt. The plastic grass from our Easter baskets always ended up all over the living room, tangled in the vacuum later. My sister would wear her pastel dress with pride. There was something comforting in the routine of it all—something safe.

When I lay those memories over what’s going on in my life right now, I can’t help but feel a sense of melancholy. Who I was, who we were, no longer exists. And those holidays I so looked forward to as a kid are merely dates on a calendar now.

And, for me, that’s OK. It’s OK to not enjoy what you once used to. We grow. We adapt. And as this month has been teaching me—through writing, reflection, and recovery—different is OK.

This month’s blog entries have all carried this undercurrent of transition–the Universe forcing me to focus on something. Receiving life differently. Living in the in-between. Embracing change even when it doesn’t come with clarity or closure. And now, here we are on Easter, a holiday about renewal, about transformation, and about life not looking like we expected it to… but still holding meaning.

That’s a powerful metaphor for life after loss.

Whether we’re talking about the loss of someone we love, the loss of how we used to feel, the loss of routine, or even the loss of belief systems—we’re constantly being invited to reimagine what life can look like.

That reimagining doesn’t always start with joy. Sometimes it begins in mourning. In silence. In a pause. In the realization that what once was, is no longer. But that doesn’t mean something beautiful can’t grow in its place.

Now, Easter mornings are quieter. There are no baskets, no sibling arguments, no frantic searches for eggs. The kids are grown, the dog doesn’t care. Now, Easter morning are just coffee, a moment of reflection, and maybe a text exchange if I’m lucky, and a call to family later. And even though the traditions have faded, the memories echo louder than ever. They remind me of who we were—but they don’t dictate who I have to be today.

It’s taken me years to understand that growth isn’t always about going back or rebuilding what we had. Sometimes, it’s about building something new. Something quieter. Slower. Deeper. Maybe it’s not as shiny or grand as what we pictured—but it’s rooted. And real.

And different? Doesn’t mean worse.

Reimagining what life looks like now doesn’t mean starting over from scratch. It’s more like slowly rearranging the pieces—making space for new rituals, letting go of pressure, giving ourselves permission to find meaning in unexpected places. Some years, that looks like brunch with friends. Other years, it’s simply pausing long enough to remember and breathe.

Easter reminds us of that too. Of the possibility of transformation after grief. Of life returning in a new form—not as it was, but as it needs to be. We don’t need to pretend everything is OK, or force ourselves to replicate the past. We get to evolve.

So maybe you’re spending today alone. Or maybe you’re creating new traditions with a chosen family. Maybe you’re somewhere in between, unsure of how to feel. That’s all allowed.

We don’t have to chase what was.

We can honor what was, and still embrace what is. And maybe even make space for what could be.

Different is OK.

Different might even be the beginning of something beautiful.

So if today feels quiet, or bittersweet, or unlike the Easters you used to know, you’re not alone. You’re in transition. You’re healing. You’re growing.

And just like this season, you’re allowed to begin again.

What are you honoring this Easter? And what new beginning might be waiting for you?