When Easter Hurts
Each year, Easter arrives with the scent of hot cross buns, the golden glow of autumn light (for those of us in the Southern Hemisphere), and a collective exhale as the long weekend begins. For many, it’s a time to rest, connect with loved ones, or simply enjoy the turn of seasons. But for those who’ve grown up in high-control religious environments, Easter often carries a different weight, one saturated with fear, shame, and tightly held theological narratives that still echo in the body, long after belief has shifted.
For survivors of religious trauma, Easter can stir a mix of grief, confusion, and internal conflict. What was once presented as the ultimate message of hope and love often feels, in hindsight, like a deeply unsettling reminder of coercion, guilt, and unworthiness. Holidays have a way of unearthing unresolved pain. The rituals, the language, the music, even the smell of communion wine or the solemn tone of Good Friday sermons can reopen spiritual wounds.
Many of us were told that Easter was the pinnacle of divine love.
The Pentecostal church I was part of used the slogan Cross = Love. It would be plastered on everything, the sky included! Sky-writers all across Australia a few days before Easter would cover the sky with this message, but the version of love we were taught was steeped in violence.
A brutal death, demanded by a Father God, held up as the ultimate example of sacrificial love. And our role? To be endlessly grateful that someone had to be tortured and executed because we were so fundamentally broken. For some, this message of substitutionary atonement became the foundation of their identity, me included, salvation as self-negation.
As we begin to untangle from this narrative, it’s normal to feel disoriented. But what if the problem isn’t with us for questioning the story but with the story itself?
What if Easter was never meant to be about control?
When Love Looks Like Control
In many fundamentalist traditions, the Easter narrative becomes a vehicle for reinforcing power structures. The focus shifts from Jesus’ radical compassion, his solidarity with the marginalized, or his vision of a new kind of humanity and zooms in on the cross as a divine transaction. A sin-debt paid. A wrath appeased. A test of your loyalty.
The language used around Easter especially in evangelical and Pentecostal spaces can be jarringly intense. Phrases like “He died in your place,” “Your sin nailed Him to the cross,” or “Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness” turn Easter into a spiritual guilt trap. These repeated mantras can create a deep association between love and punishment, grace and grovelling, forgiveness and fear.
Instead of feeling loved, many of us felt blamed. Instead of feeling safe, we lived in fear. And not just existential fear, but daily fear of backsliding, of failing, of disappointing a God who seemed to require suffering before acceptance.
What often goes unnoticed in these spaces is how this messaging reflects not divine love, but conditional acceptance. Love, in this framework, is transactional: Jesus suffered, so now you owe him your life. Your thoughts, your body, your time. To question this exchange was to risk divine rejection. To doubt was to betray. And for many, especially children and teens, this “deal” felt impossible to escape.
This doesn’t sound like love.
It sounds like spiritual coercion dressed in religious language.
When the Cross Feels Like a Trigger
For many survivors, Good Friday is the hardest part of Easter.
The solemn services.
The graphic depictions of suffering.
The heavy emphasis on guilt.
The suggestion that Jesus endured torture because you were born sinful.
The emotional crescendo of being told, again and again, that you were the reason he died.
These aren’t neutral teachings. For those with histories of spiritual abuse, childhood indoctrination, or religious-based shame, these narratives can activate trauma responses - tightness in the chest, anxiety, dissociation, or a deep sense of dread. And yet, these responses are often brushed aside as “spiritual warfare” or a lack of gratitude, compounding the shame.
You may find yourself unable to attend church services or sing songs you once loved. You might feel isolated, misunderstood, or even ashamed of your reactions. But your trauma response is not a sign of weakness, it’s your body’s wisdom. It remembers the fear, the pressure, the pain. It knows you were conditioned to carry responsibility for someone else’s violent death. And it knows that wasn’t okay.
You were never meant to be the scapegoat in someone else's salvation plan.
Fear in the Shape of Scripture
“If you deny Him before men, He will deny you before the Father.” (Matthew 10:33)
I apologise if that scripture immediately triggered you! Many of us internalised this verse as a constant warning. It lingered in the back of our minds every time we wrestled with doubt, hesitated to speak up, or simply felt weary. Easter, with its emotionally charged services and pressure to express gratitude, often intensified the fear that we weren’t devoted enough. Public displays of faith were not just encouraged they were expected.
What if I’m not bold enough in my faith?
What if my doubts mean I’m denying Jesus?
What if I’m not holy enough to be accepted?
In high-control religion, love is often tied to performance. But this kind of fear-based loyalty is not love it is emotional blackmail dressed up in sacred language. And for many, these scriptures weren’t just metaphor they were internalised as life-or-death truths, creating chronic anxiety and disconnection from one’s own inner compass.
Real love doesn’t require constant reassurance or performative obedience. It doesn’t punish uncertainty or withhold safety until we prove ourselves worthy. If Easter is truly about love, then it must also be about freedom; the freedom to question, to wrestle, to walk away, and still know you are loved.
Uncertainty is not betrayal. It’s human.
You were meant to be cherished, not shamed.
Dying to Self or Abandoning Yourself?
“Die to yourself.”
“Less of me, more of Him.”
“You must decrease, He must increase.”
These statements were once seen as noble expressions of surrender. But for many, they were the beginning of self-erasure. The message was clear: your desires, your boundaries, and your identity were obstacles to God’s will. The more invisible you became, the more spiritual you were. Slowly, you were taught to distrust your inner world, to trade your voice for obedience.
This theology trains people, especially women, queer people, neurodivergent people, and others on the margins to ignore their instincts, dismiss their needs, and silence their voice. It’s not humility, it’s spiritualised self-abandonment. And it has long-term effects on mental health, self-worth, and relationships.
But what if your fullness is sacred?
What if becoming more you - not less - is the real invitation?
Healing means reclaiming the parts of yourself you were taught to sacrifice. It means seeing your voice, your intuition, your body and your story as worthy of protection and love. It means stepping away from systems that benefit from your silence and into spaces where your authenticity is welcome. Your desires are not a threat to goodness- they are part of it.
Reclaiming Easter on Your Terms
Here’s the truth: You get to define Easter now.
Maybe for you, Easter means a quiet day in the garden. Or a trip to the beach. Maybe it’s a shared meal, a reflective journal entry, or just a weekend without obligations. Maybe it still holds spiritual meaning but one rooted in freedom, not fear. Maybe your sacred moment is sipping tea in silence, or watching your children laugh as they hunt for chocolate eggs.
You don’t need to spiritualise the weekend to make it valid.
You don’t need to feel grateful for suffering.
You don’t have to follow anyone else’s script.
Some find meaning in the symbolism of resurrection - rising, starting again, coming back to life in new ways. Others find meaning in simply letting go. In choosing peace. In saying no to the noise and yes to themselves. Still others take the weekend to rest deeply, letting nature and presence speak louder than doctrine ever could.
You are allowed to enjoy your Easter without guilt.
You are allowed to prioritise connection over conformity.
You are allowed to rest instead of repent.
There’s no one right way to navigate Easter after religious trauma. There is only the path that honours your healing. And that path might look different each year.
You Are Not Alone
If this is your first Easter outside the old system, be gentle with yourself. The absence of old rituals can feel like a void. But that space is also fertile ground - room for new traditions, new meanings, and new connections to take root. You are allowed to grieve what you’ve lost, even if you don’t want it back.
You are not the only one walking away from fear-based faith.
You are not the only one asking, “What if love was never meant to look like this?”
You are not the only one choosing rest, joy, or authenticity over performance.
You are part of a quiet, growing movement of people daring to imagine a more expansive spirituality. One that honours your humanity. One that welcomes your questions. One that doesn't ask you to disappear to be loved. You are rewriting the story and in doing so, giving others the courage to do the same.
This Easter, may you find moments of softness.
May the crisp air remind you of new seasons.
May you feel the warmth of your own presence.
May you taste sweetness without shame.
May you feel loved - wholly, freely, without condition.
Not because someone died for you.
Not because you said the right words.
Not because you proved your loyalty.
But simply because you are human. And that is enough.