Easter Morning

A Walk Toward Myself

There are mornings that feel like more than a moment in time - they feel like a turning point, like the whole world pauses and breathes with you, and everything you are comes into sharp, beautiful focus. This Easter morning was like that.

I found myself walking just after sunrise, beside him - our boyfriend - hand in hand as the light gently spilled over the quiet streets. The air was cool and filled with the delicate hush that only comes when the world is still asleep. But I was wide awake. Every sense lit up. Every step felt ceremonial. Sacred.

I could see our shadows stretching long ahead of us, tangled together like vines. And there - there was mine. My silhouette, kissed by golden morning light. It was soft. Feminine. No question. A skirt fluttered lightly with each step, my hair catching in the breeze, my body swaying with a confidence I never knew in my old life. And I thought:

It’s me.

 

It’s me.

Not the mask I wore for so many years. Not the role I was forced into by a culture that confuses dominance with worth. Not the “man” I pretended to be. But me. The woman I am. The woman I have fought to become. The woman who was always there, waiting patiently beneath the rubble of toxic masculinity.

And in that quiet morning, I realized something: my journey - this path of feminization - is a resurrection.

Not in the abstract sense. Not just metaphorically. But a real, tangible rising. From the dead weight of old identities. From the numbness of pretending. From the prison of masculinity that left no room for softness, for beauty, for surrender.

I was reborn - not in a single moment, but through years of love, discipline, humility, and courage.

And I did not rise alone.

My wife - my guide, my teacher, my anchor - walked with me long before this Easter morning. She saw the real me when I could barely glimpse her. She trained me, yes. She educated me, reshaped me with loving hands and a will of steel. She was never cruel, but she was never careless, either. She held me accountable when I tried to retreat. She punished me when I needed it, not to hurt me, but to help me shed the skin that no longer served me.

Through her patience, her strength, and her absolute belief in what I could become, she gave me the tools to rise. She gave me myself.

I think of those long nights - of her voice, calm and commanding, teaching me how to walk, how to speak, how to yield with dignity. I think of the way she would brush my hair, sometimes gently, sometimes with purposeful force. I think of the discipline, the rituals, the small acts of transformation that built me from the inside out. She didn’t just allow my femininity - she demanded it. And I love her for that with all that I am.

And then there’s him. Our boyfriend.

Love wears many forms, and his presence in my life has been one of the most unexpected and beautiful blessings. With him, I feel radiant. Desired. Truly seen. Not as an imitation or a novelty, but as the woman I am - special, feminine, worthy. The way he looks at me when I dress up for him, the way his touch lingers on my skin, the way his voice softens when he calls me his girl… it does something profound to me.

It heals.

He has a way of making me feel not just loved, but cherished. He balances strength with tenderness, desire with deep respect. He doesn’t just take me - he adores me. And that feeling of being adored… it’s like water to a flower that has gone too long without rain. Under his gaze, I bloom.

So as we walked this Easter morning, I held both of them in my heart. My wife, my sculptor. Him, my mirror and my reward. The sun rose slowly, casting light on everything we are, everything we’ve become. And I knew - this was more than just a walk.

This was a ritual. A celebration. A resurrection.

Near the Bench

 

And then, near the end of our walk, we found a quiet. The cherry trees around us had opened just in time for Easter, delicate petals cascading in the morning light like blessings falling from the sky. We sat together, quietly, letting the beauty of it all settle into our skin.

The sun warmed my face, and I tilted my head just a little, exposing the side of my neck - maybe intentionally, maybe instinctively. And somehow, he knew. He always knows. That this moment - these moments - mean the world to me. That I feel something eternal inside them. And just like that, he gifted me the gentlest, most reverent kiss at the curve of my neck.

I nearly melted.

I die for a tender kiss in my neck, and he gifted my a dozen.

I blushed - openly, helplessly, like a young girl caught in the rush of her first spring crush. And just as a young girl might, full of breathless joy and no resistance at all, I couldn’t help myself - I curled up into his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him with every ounce of warmth the sun had poured into me.

We sat there, tangled in a snog that was soft and slow, bold and sweet, kissed by cherry blossoms and new beginnings. And in that moment, there was no past, no fear, no pretending - only love, only presence, only truth.

I have risen.

And I am alive in every way I never thought I could be.