Ah yes, Easter. That cheerful time of year when the birds are singing, flowers are blooming, and you’re secretly googling, “How long can you be around your family before you become a terrible person?”
We like to imagine Easter as a wholesome gathering: family all around one table, laughter echoing between mouthfuls of šunka and pinca, the smell of spring in the air. And sure, that happens. For exactly four minutes. Right before someone brings up politics, or Dad’s Thursday’s reserved for “Bela with the guys.”
Childhood Easter: Sugar, Games, and Zero Existential Dread
Back then, Easter meant eggs, sugar highs, and casual playing games with real eggs. We’d sit around the table, trying to eat all the food and still have room for dessert. Your biggest concern was whether to sit or lie down.
Your parents did all the prep while you sat at the table eating šunka and francuska. Easter was easy. Easter was fun. Easter was full of chocolate and zero personal accountability.
But now? Now Easter is basically a family-themed anxiety marathon where the finish line is emotional burnout and your reward is bloating.
Adult Easter: A Festive Identity Crisis
Now you’re hosting Easter. Willingly. Voluntarily. Like a functioning adult with a death wish. Because you thought, “It’ll be nice. I’ll create a warm, welcoming space. Like in the movies, but with less artificial lighting and more regional meat products.”
So you clean the apartment like the sanitary department’s coming for an inspection. You bake something to impress mom and dad. You attempt to acquire šunka so it’s juicy and tender, not dry and existentially disappointing. You fold napkins. You smile. You sweat.
And then everyone arrives and immediately asks why you didn’t make the salad that way they like, and why they didn’t do it. You pretend not to care. You host. You float. You refill glasses. You die inside just a little every time someone says, “This is nice, but we used to do it differently.”
But you did this because you wanted to. Right?
Right.
The Great Holiday Pretend-a-thon
The thing about holidays is that everyone plays their role. The Passive-Aggressive One. The Martyr Who Did All The Cooking. The One Who Is Always “Just Asking Questions.” You rehearse these dynamics like it’s a family play that gets revived once a year with no new script and the same old grudges.
You pretend you love that weird bread no one likes but we have to have it because it’s “tradition.” You pretend you’re not bothered by all the judgy comments. You pretend to enjoy all those things.
The energy is half “Christ is Risen” and half “Don’t you dare bring up that thing from 2017.”
The Resurrection Party Vibes
Remember when Easter was the biggest party of the year? Especially in high school. You’d endure hours of church just so your grandmother could nod approvingly and say you were a “good child,” and then—boom—you were out. By the lake, by the fire, drinks in hand, pretending to understand the spiritual significance of the moment while mostly just trying not to throw up from too much homemade rakija.
Jesus dies, comes back after three days, and what do people do? Celebrate. Loudly. With food and drink and minor chaos. That’s the energy we used to channel. Full-on resurrection rager. If there were Instagram stories in Biblical times, you know there’d be one of the disciples yelling, “HE’S BACKKKK” with a shaky video of a bonfire.
Now? You’re asleep by ten with indigestion from the šunka and a vague sense of guilt for not feeling more spiritually awakened.
The Real Reason We’re All Tense
It’s not the food. It’s not even the company (okay, sometimes it’s the company). It’s the weird emotional audit the holidays sneak into your living room like a nosy family member who “just wants to see how you’re doing.”
You’re not even in your childhood home anymore. You’re in your space. You’ve curated the vibe. And still—somehow—you find yourself reacting like a teenager who just got told they’re “too sensitive.”
Family walks in and the air shifts. You hear someone ask if you’re “still not going to have another baby,” and suddenly you’re questioning every life choice that led to this moment, while simultaneously drinking too much wine.
Holidays have a way of holding up a mirror—one of those badly lit ones in changing rooms that makes you look 30% worse than you actually are. You catch yourself thinking, “Should I be further along? More… stable? Less annoyed by the way someone breathes?”
But maybe that’s part of it. Being surrounded by people who knew you before you had boundaries, or hobbies, or a preferred brand of a laundry detergent… it brings out all the versions of yourself you thought you’d neatly packed away. Turns out they still have your address.
So What Do We Do?
We host. We slice the šunka. We pour the drinks. We engage in egg-based combat with alarming levels of competitiveness. We smile. We take breaks. We let someone else load the dishwasher even though they’re clearly doing that wrong.
We try to love each other in real time, not just in nostalgia.
We forgive things we haven’t fully healed from.
We laugh. We wince. We refill the wine.
And when it all feels like too much, we step onto the balcony, breathe in the spring air, and remind ourselves: resurrection is a process—messy, loud, and occasionally covered in francuska salad.
Or we take a shot of rakija and keep going. Because tradition.
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