Sunday Chapters – Life Between the Lines: The Beauty of the Rise

“Not all resurrections are loud. Some happen in silence, in stillness, in the decision to try again.”

In last week’s essay, Becoming the Story, I wrote about the power of naming your dream—how we stop waiting for permission and start claiming who we already are. That essay came from a very real place in my heart… a place where I finally stopped circling around my identity as a writer and stepped fully into it, even when I felt unfinished.

But what happens after we name it?

What happens in the days, or weeks, or even years after we say yes to the dream, only to find ourselves stuck again, uncertain, or quietly fading back into the noise of life?

That’s where this story lives.

Because after the brave beginning comes the beautiful return.
And today, on Easter Sunday, I want to talk about the rise.

There’s a quiet kind of miracle that lives in the in-between.
Not in the fireworks or the finish lines.
But in the moment you choose to rise—softly, slowly, almost imperceptibly—from something that once made you feel small.

Easter has always felt like more than a holiday to me. It’s a rhythm. A whisper. A knowing. That even after winter has stripped us bare, there’s something deeper still blooming just beneath the surface. A second chance. A new page. A quiet return.

I think we underestimate how sacred coming back to ourselves really is.

We’re taught to celebrate the breakthrough, the comeback, the big transformation. But what about the ones that happen in the silence of our own hearts? The kind no one else sees?

The one where you sit at the edge of your bed in the morning, feeling cracked open by the world… and still reach for your journal.

The one where you return to the story you left half-finished, the dream you put on hold, the version of you who once believed in something more.

The one where you whisper, “I’m not done yet.”

There was a season where I didn’t feel like myself.
I felt… dim. Not broken. Not empty. Just dulled around the edges. Like life had sanded me down a bit, and I didn’t quite know how to shine anymore.

I still did the things—poured the tea, walked the dog, smiled when needed—but inside, there was a part of me that had gone quiet. My creativity, my passion, my spark—it felt distant. Like a wave I couldn’t quite catch again.

And then one day, in the middle of a quiet walk down to the beach, barefoot and a little windswept, I felt it: a flicker.
Not a lightning bolt. Not a breakthrough. Just a whisper.

“What if it’s not too late to rise again?”

The tide was low. The sun was barely climbing over the hills. But something in that soft moment reminded me that I didn’t need to make a grand comeback. I didn’t need to be ready. I just needed to be willing.

Willing to start again.
Willing to believe that the best parts of me weren’t behind me.
Willing to rise.

That’s what Easter teaches me—year after year. That resurrection doesn’t always come with trumpets and crowds. Sometimes, it’s quiet. Gentle. Private.

Sometimes, the beauty of the rise is in the fact that no one else has to see it but you.

You can rise from disappointment.
From burnout.
From self-doubt.
From the story you were told wasn’t yours to claim.
From the version of you who believed you had to have it all together to begin.

And here’s the most comforting truth I know:
You can rise again and again and again.
There is no limit to how many times you’re allowed to start over.

This month, maybe you’ve felt the weight of something unsaid. Or the ache of something unfinished. Or the pull of something you haven’t let yourself name.

Maybe you’ve forgotten what it feels like to be lit up by your own life.

Maybe you need a resurrection—not in the religious sense, but in the soulful one. A reawakening of whatever part of you has gone still.

If that’s you, I want to offer this:
You don’t have to earn your return. You’re allowed to rise simply because your story isn’t over.

You’re allowed to:

• Reclaim your voice, even if it shakes.
• Revisit the dream you thought you abandoned.
• Rewrite the ending. Or scrap the whole chapter and begin again.
• Re-enter the world slowly, softly, in your own way.

You don’t need permission.
You don’t need a perfect plan.
You don’t even need to be certain.

You just need to stand up one more time than you were knocked down.
You just need to believe in the beauty of the rise.

So today, I hope you find a moment of stillness.
Maybe it’s a sunrise. A page. A walk. A deep breath.
A soft place where something stirs within you again.

Let it.
Don’t rush it.
Don’t try to name it or mold it or turn it into content.
Just feel it.

Let it remind you that you are still becoming.
And that every season—even the quiet ones—holds a purpose.

Maybe this isn’t your peak bloom moment.
Maybe this is your underground season.
Your roots-deepening season.
Your sacred return.

That, too, is worthy.
That, too, is beautiful.

And when you’re ready—whether that’s today, tomorrow, or some gentle morning next month—I hope you give yourself permission to begin again.

To rise.

Softly. Boldly. Quietly. Fully.

Because the story isn’t finished.

Not yet.

Until next time…
May your Sundays be unhurried, your reflections gentle, and your heart open to the stories still waiting to unfold.

I’ll meet you again between the lines.

Love,
Emma 🌿✨