Easter used to look like bright colors, bunnies and ducks. Like baskets, eggs, and candy. Like fancy dress clothes and spring flowers. It used to smell like ham and mashed potatoes, like sugar and vanilla and multiple pots of freshly brewed coffee.

It also used to sound like most other days, certainly most holidays, in my house when I was a teenager and young adult – screaming and yelling and throwing things against walls (or people, depending on the year). There was always – ALWAYS – conflict, and holidays were no exception to that rule. In fact, the odds of conflict were doubled on holidays. Hurt feelings, misinterpretations, old grudges, resentment and flat-out dislike would continually bubble and boil at the surface of our daily lives. Holidays, rather than offering a break from the insanity, only seemed to intensify it, the difference between steadily squeezing a tube of toothpaste – and sitting on one. Pain was a constant malignant ooze shared by all, and on holidays it was a projectile experience.

People often have idyllic thoughts on what holidays are supposed to be like. Society as a whole dictates that a lot, too. It’s easy to say “Easter” and conjure up an approximation of what you can expect most families celebrating the holiday to be doing today, with any number of individual variations on tradition of course. From early childhood, I have snippets of what I would call canonical memories of Easter and other holidays (reminding that I identify now as Jewish but was raised in an interfaith household by a Jewish father and Catholic mother). The problem is, so much of what I remember about holidays are cast in such deep shadow, especially shadow from when I was older, that those canonical snippets are little more than teeny tiny bright pinpricks in my mind, by comparison. It makes for a lot of confusing feelings about holidays, even if, or even especially because, they’re holidays I no longer observe.

Whether the holidays were “mine” or not, there was always tumult to contend with. Most of the time, I managed to avoid the fray by either literally hiding up in my bedroom (which was snarkily referred to as my ivory tower), or otherwise by making very clear that I had a sharp enough tongue to outwit any barbs thrown my way. Either way, eventually I was tangoed with less often. When I first began to commit more to Judaism, it was hilarious to my mother and others that I was refusing to eat ham, and this was a big point of contention on Easter Sunday; I have a memory of being chased around the house with it on a fork (far less funny to me than to the ones doing the chasing). Eventually I figured out that if I made something specific for that day which I knew I could eat, the argument was lessened. When my mother finally realized I was not going to be taking her Christmas decorations after she passed away, she took great, great offense (yes, so great that I said it twice – I’m talking a full-on, hands thrown up in the air, crocodile tears, running into the bedroom and slamming the door behind her in hysterics kind of tantrum thrown by a sixty-ish year old woman). My formal embrace of my faith was a huge personal affront to her, because, after all, for a narcissist, everything really is about them. If she acted as though she supported my choice to be Jewish, which at times outwardly she did, it was all just a part to play so that her image of maternal sainthood was cemented. She had gifted me a Seder plate to use at my Passover table – not out of the goodness of her heart, but so that her presence would be represented there year after year, a way to hold her dominance. Pretty much all gifts from her served this purpose; I’ve been slowly working my way through eliminating these items, replacing them if needed with things that don’t hold such baggage. And, much like replacing ceremonial items as appropriate, I’ve been working on replacing (or at least repairing) difficult memories with new traditions of my own. It’s a process I’m still going through, but one that has felt right in my heart every step of the way, even when those steps are heavy.

Thankfully, I haven’t been in a position where I’ve had to grin and bear it (and duck punches and cover my ears) for a holiday I don’t affiliate with in some time. Not since Christmas of 2016, if I had to venture a specific guess. My mother abandoned my brother and left my now dead stepfather in spring of the following year, before Easter, and I think she was with her rebound guy for Christmas 2017, and I finally stopped talking to her for good the following summer.

When I was first dating my now husband, it was a long distance relationship of sorts, we lived about 90 minutes apart. I asked him anxiously once if he didn’t like my family, as he was not very talkative around them and his visits to me were pretty rare compared to how frequently I came up to see him. Ever the diplomatic fellow, he tried to assure me that he liked my family just fine, it’s just that “they were always loud” – the implication of which was that it was a little hard for him to be around. It took me a long time to understand what he meant. I’d been so used to the chaos and calamity that I didn’t know any different. I didn’t know that it didn’t have to be that way. It’s been a comfort to discover, in the last couple of years, that my true nature is far softer than the many layers of armor and barbed wire I always had to shield myself with. I can yell, oh boy, can I yell – but now I don’t have to, and better yet, it turns out I don’t actually have a penchant for it. How nice!

All in all, being able to escape the entire hullabaloo of Easter (and Christmas, especially) has been a great relief in my life. Where once there was so much noise I wondered at times when my ears would begin to bleed…now there is quiet. Where there was gut-wrenching turmoil…now there is calm. Once upon a time, I would have been surrounded by several dozen screaming people who, generally speaking, hardly cared about me at all; today, I relaxed with just my husband and my kid, whose love for me I can know for certain.

I have peace that I can count on now. And while that idea in itself is disorienting, it is that peace that I orient myself to when all else feels tilted on its axis.

Wishing everyone who celebrates a joyous Easter, and wishing peace to all.