Golden Eggs & Growing Roots. When Life Feels Unfinished (How to Find Joy Anyway)

There’s something about Easter that arrives softly, whether you’re ready or not.

This year, it found us mid-transition—walls half-finished, routines still forming, and brown paper taped where frames will someday hang. The kind of in-between season where nothing feels quite settled yet… but everything is quietly becoming.

And somehow, right in the middle of it all, magic showed up anyway.

We were invited to a neighborhood Easter egg hunt—our first since moving here. New faces, new streets, children running in every direction with baskets swinging and laughter trailing behind them. six hundred eggs scattered across the grass, and the kind of energy you can feel in your chest.

And my son?

He found the golden egg within an easter egg.

Of course he did.

I swear, that child could walk into a room of chance and walk out chosen every time. It’s the kind of luck that makes you laugh and shake your head all at once. A quiet reminder that some people just carry light with them wherever they go.

But what made it even sweeter was what the golden egg held.

Not just candy—but care.

He was the winner of a thoughtfully gathered Easter basket filled with small, meaningful things: toys, books, bubbles, chalk, little crafts for busy hands and curious minds. The kind of things that last longer than sugar. The kind of things that invite creativity, not just consumption.

And I found myself unexpectedly grateful.

Because this year, I had quietly asked the Easter Bunny for the same.

Less noise, more intention.

A basket filled with kinetic sand and simple games. A matching mermaid swimsuit for my daughter and her American Girl doll—because childhood should feel a little magical. And yes, a chocolate bunny, because some traditions are meant to stay.

But if I’m honest, Easter didn’t feel perfectly put together this year.

There are no fully styled shelves or carefully hung frames. My home still feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for decisions to be made. Even as I lean into this new season—my vintage era, collecting pieces with stories and patina—everything is still arriving in bits and pieces. Some of it quite literally, as shipments make their way from Round Top, Texas.

I miss my old antique store. The familiarity. The people who knew my style before I had to explain it.

I miss the old friends too, if I let myself say it plainly.

But this life we’re building now—it’s asking for patience.

For trust.

For the understanding that roots don’t grow overnight, even when you’ve planted something good. Just like the daliah seed that I just planted

And maybe that’s what this Easter felt like for me.

Not polished. Not finished. Not picture-perfect.

But like it’s holding its breath.

Full of small kindnesses.
New beginnings.
Golden moments I didn’t plan for.

The kind that remind you—you’re already growing, even here and now. Just keep waiting and soon you will sprout up.