Crossing Over: What Died in Me This Good Friday

I went to the Good Friday service this year not to mourn a man on a cross.

Because Jesus is not dead.

To linger in grief over a death that has already been undone feels, to me, like standing at an empty tomb and weeping as if it’s still sealed.

The cross was real, yes. The pain was real. But death did not get the final word. It was undone, overturned, re-coded in light.

And so I came, not to mourn, but to witness something deeper:
A pattern.
A portal.
A movement that’s lived in my body longer than I’ve known.
Because resurrection is not only something that happened—
It is something happening.
Right now.
In me.

This week is Passover, too.

And that means something to me—not just spiritually, but genetically.
My ancestors kept that story.
They marked their doorposts.
They left Egypt with trauma in their bones and dust in their teeth.
And I carry that movement inside me, the one that says, “This is not the life you were made for. Walk out. Now.”

That movement? It’s not just historical. It’s not just symbolic.
It’s cellular.
It’s mystical.
It’s mine.

This year, Passover and Good Friday aren’t just aligned on the calendar.
They’re aligned in me.

Because I know what it means to be enslaved.
To trauma.
To false roles.
To the demand to hold it all together.
To the belief that if I rest, everything will fall apart

and it will be my fault.

And I also know what it is to carry resurrection energy in my body before the tomb even opens.

This Good Friday, I let something die that needed to die:

The version of me that thought survival was nobler than receiving.
The version that mistook control for safety.
The version that didn’t believe healing could come gently.

I didn’t bury her with fanfare. I just stopped feeding her.
And I could feel the exhale in my fascia.

What came alive in her place?

Something quieter. Something truer.

A knowing that I don’t have to earn my freedom.
That I don’t have to keep dragging my old survival armor through every season of my life.
That the blood on the doorpost has already been drawn—marking me as safe, as seen.
That the blood on the cross has already been poured—once, for all—declaring the end of striving.
And I don’t have to bleed anymore to prove I’m chosen.

This is not just a holy weekend.
It’s a sacred invitation.

To stop reenacting captivity.
To stop clinging to crucifixion.
To stop trying to heal in exile.

And to say yes to what’s already been given:
Deliverance. Resurrection. Sonship.
In the deepest parts of me.

And maybe in you too.