I wrote this piece several years ago during the “messy middle” of my divorce. As a stay-at-home mom of four small children, facing our first holiday apart was both heartbreaking and unexpectedly restorative. I share this reflection from that difficult season hoping it might resonate with others finding their way through similar uncharted waters.

This weekend marked another first in our family's journey: my children and I celebrated our first holiday apart.

Purple is for preparation.

I hadn't celebrated Easter weekend away from my children in our 11 years together. Preparing for this uncharted territory, I reflected on our shared holidays. Easter has always brought gifts of hope, light, and joy, though often following periods of hardship. I've prepared for many Easters carrying the grief of four miscarriages that clouded my vision of promised hope. I've also celebrated many Easters giving humble thanks for blessings that lifted our hearts in ways that felt truly risen.

As I prepared to celebrate in a quiet home, my thoughts drifted to years blessed with Easter chaos. Tiny feet slapping against hardwoods as eggs were collected, baskets discovered, chocolate bunnies smeared over faces and furniture, tiny limbs guided into "Easter Best" outfits before family photos threatened jelly bean confiscation for those refusing to smile. All before our punctual arrival at church—inevitably 20 minutes too late to find seats. On lucky years, sympathetic families would stack children on laps so we could attempt to absorb the Good News while balancing books and stickers, trying to keep our little jumping beans stationary for 60 minutes.

I remembered one particular Easter, when my best friend called with concern after seeing our family photos.

"It's time to talk about self-care," she said with stern, honest love.

She wasn't referring to my hasty attempt at styling—hair pulled back, minimal makeup, new dress. She noticed I had prioritized myself last in everything. My sleep was neglected, my nursing body undernourished. I looked tired and hungry. I was tired and hungry. Looking at that picture, I saw she was right.

This year, in solitude, I recognized the gift of restoration. I declined gracious invitations, instead attending the candlelit Easter Vigil among a loving community, soaking in a silent night in spring without bedtime routines. Easter morning delivered quiet coffee and music as prayers before my favorite early run, rosary setting my cadence. As I ran, I saw SO many mamas, sweating through their dry shampoo, running harried in heels, herding small feet, hoping to secure a spot in church . . . and that their efforts might award them with a small gift of seeing, hearing, or feeling a morsel of something sacred. I prayed each would experience something holy, whether in that moment or later in reflection.

*Sunday morning coffee with Chief before we set out on our Easter morning run.*

I welcomed my children home Sunday afternoon, having prepared their pre-approved Easter dinner. I'd showered, eaten, and savored a meal. They arrived in "Easter not-best," and we spent the day outside in play clothes and bare feet. Neighborhood friends took our family picture—tarnished clothes, muddy knees and toes. We prayed over dinner and ended with a requested movie night watching "Easter Parade." New traditions, new rituals, new life.

I went to bed tired but rested, grateful for another gift of hope and light. Though never the Easter I imagined for us, I found beauty in various shades of purple preparation and in the white light carrying me from Easter Vigil's quiet evening into a glorious Sunday.

White is for Celebration.

And I know this light brings another promise: the best is yet to come.

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