Easter Sunday 2026

There’s something about 4am that feels louder than any time of day.

The world is silent, but my mind isn’t.

It never really switches off anymore. It hums, it replays, it questions. It lists everything I’ve done and everything I might have missed. It’s where doubt lives, quietly waiting for the rest of the world to go to sleep so it can speak the loudest.

And this morning, it’s Easter Sunday.

So instead of lying there fighting it, I got up.

I padded through the house in the dark, careful not to wake anyone, and became the Easter Bunny. Balloons tied, little gifts placed, clues scattered in just the right spots. Not over the top this year… but enough. At least, I hope it’s enough.

That word again. Enough.

Because when you’re both mum and dad rolled into one, “enough” becomes a constant question. There’s no one else to share the mental load with, no one to say, “you’ve done plenty.” It’s just me, second guessing in the quiet hours, wondering if I should have done more, added more, been more.

And somewhere in the back of my mind sits the awareness that for him, it probably doesn’t even cross his mind.

That’s the part that stings.

By 5:30am, I’m back in bed. The birds have started their morning chorus, soft at first, then louder, like the world gently waking up around me. My youngest has found her way in beside me, curled up, warm and safe, not quite awake yet. And for a moment, everything slows.

This is what matters.

But even in that stillness, the thoughts creep back in.

My eldest is out, staying at a friend’s after a night out. So I check my phone. Then check it again. Watching her location like it might somehow guarantee her safety. Hoping she’s had the best time, but praying she’s okay. That quiet anxiety that comes with letting them grow up, even when every instinct wants to pull them close.

And there I am, lying between two worlds.

One child still small enough to believe in the magic I’ve just created downstairs. The other out there, living her own life, needing me in a completely different way.

And me? I’m in the middle, questioning everything.

Have I done enough? Am I doing this right? Is there something I’ve missed?

The thoughts come in waves. Heavy ones. The kind that make you feel like you’re being watched, judged, measured by invisible standards set by people who don’t walk your path. Beady eyes you can almost feel, even if they’re not really there.

It’s exhausting.

But then I look at what is here.

A house filled with small touches of magic. A little one who will wake up beaming with excitement. An older one who feels safe enough to go out and live her life. A mum who got up at 4am, not because she had to… but because she cares that much.

And slowly, I remind myself:

This is enough.

Not perfect. Not extravagant. Not Instagram-worthy.

But real. Thoughtful. Full of love.

And maybe that’s the part I need to hold onto.

Because as long as my girls have me—showing up, trying, loving them in all the ways I can—then this Easter, and every other day, I am enough.

Even at 4am.