There’s a quiet kind of beginning that doesn’t ask you to grow into someone new.
Years ago, when I was a child, I left everything I had ever known. I had been raised in a church that was also a school, and my world was small, structured, and familiar—the same faces, the same rhythms, the same expectations. Even the way I dressed had always been decided for me. I wore school uniforms every day, without question. So when my parents decided to move me to a public school, I was anything but happy about it. Outside of a few neighborhood kids, church families were the only people I had ever known, and this new world appeared wide and uncertain. I had no idea where I would fit in.
Most of all, I didn’t know how to dress. It seems like such a small thing now, but at the time, it felt enormous. What do you wear when you’ve never had to choose before? How do you decide who to be when there are suddenly so many options? I had no idea where to begin—until one day, a girl down the street came home from shopping with her mom wearing a pair of knickerbockers. They were the trend at the time, something all the girls seemed to want, and just like that, I had my answer.
When the first day of school arrived, I walked in wearing my own pair of knickerbockers, convinced that I had found my way in—that this was the thing that could help me belong. But as it turned out, those funny little pants didn’t help at all. They didn’t make me feel more confident, and they didn’t make me feel like I fit in. If anything, they made me more aware of how out of place I felt. And somewhere along the way, I realized something I couldn’t have put into words at the time: you can’t become someone else just by dressing like them.
I had to find my way back to me. It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t easy, but slowly, over time, I began settling into a new kind of normal—one that didn’t come from copying what I saw around me, but from learning who I was within a world which felt completely unfamiliar. I think about that moment often, especially this time of year.
With Passover just around the corner, we begin to shift into a different gear. We clean, clear, and prepare. We sweep out crumbs, reorganize our kitchens, and make room for the new. The process is deeply satisfying. We spend all of this time tending to our homes, creating order, and preparing with intention. Yet, there is a gentler, quieter kind of preparation underneath it all.
As we clear out what’s tangible, our internal world comes to the surface. Beliefs and ideas that we’ve outgrown. The expectations we’ve been grasping with out even realizing it. The pressure to morph into someone perfect. But what if change doesn’t mean becoming anyone other than who we are?
At its heart, Passover is a story about liberation—not just from physical bondage, but from anything that keeps us from fully stepping into who we are meant to be. It can look like letting go of the need to have everything figured out. Like smoothing the edges of our expectations. Like allowing ourselves to move forward without rushing. It can look like trusting that little voice inside that says, ” We already know the way.”
Maybe it’s enough to clear a little space—not just in your home, but within your mind and your heart. To tend to what matters without pressure, one small thing at a time. And to begin again—gently. Not as a new person, but as someone returning home.
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