A few thoughts on rising again — gently, daily, and in our own way.
by Stacy Bremner, MA, RP
Easter has always been a story of rising — of what becomes possible when we refuse to stay buried under what hurts. While Easter holds deep meaning within the Christian tradition, I share these reflections with reverence, since the themes of rising and renewal can speak to all of us in our own ways.
Why I’m Writing About Spirit
I grew up in a Christian family, but not a practicing one. We observed the holidays — time off work, family gatherings, good food, thoughtful gifts — but we didn’t reflect on what those days were actually designed for. It was the typical North American, culturally‑Christian rhythm. Warm, familiar, but not deeply rooted.
As I write my weekly blog about mind, body, spirit, and relationship, it feels natural — even necessary — to include reflections on spirit. I’ve been a seeker my entire life. I can honestly say I reincarnated into this life for that purpose, and my life events only reinforced the direction I took. Much of my motivation came from my own misery. The suffering I didn’t know how to escape became the very thing that pushed me toward healing, learning, and eventually becoming a psychotherapist.
Over time, through study and experience, I’ve come to understand something simple and profound: life includes suffering, but we have the freedom to lift ourselves out of it — gently, daily, intentionally. Many of us were never taught this. So we share practices with each other: prayer, mindfulness, meditation, Reiki, breathwork. Every culture on Earth has its own foundation for health, healing, and connection to spirit — like the Native medicine wheel, just one example among many.
For my own sanity and well‑being, I’ve learned that I feel my best when I practice something every single day. Each day, I need to lift myself out of the lower frequencies I was taught to live in. My path hasn’t been easy, and that’s part of why I feel called to help others along the way. Astrology even reflects this — the desire to guide and support is written right into my chart. And even my name carries that imprint. Stacy comes from Anastasia, meaning “one who will rise again.” I’ve always been intrigued with that. It feels like a quiet reminder that my life’s work — seeking, healing, helping — has been woven into me from the beginning (without my parents’ conscious awareness).
When Grief Pulls Us Toward Old Stories
Lately, I’ve been noticing how grief and loss can make us hold our limiting beliefs a little closer. It’s human. It’s protective. And it’s often the moment we most need to pause and listen.
Yesterday I was fortunate to have a long phone call with one of my sons. I absolutely love our phone calls. We ended up talking about a current family situation that is troubling to both of us, and even though it felt comforting to share and talk, I could feel us both sinking a little. After we hung up, I noticed how that mood lingered inside me — a quiet heaviness, an old familiar place of helpless unhappiness. That was my cue to grab my journal. No families are without drama, at least from time to time, and I could feel myself slipping into a fearful story that needed my attention.
Listening to the First Whispers
For me, the first clue could be a thought, a feeling or a sensation. A sadness, a worry, a heaviness in my chest or a tightening in my throat. Definitely a slump in my energy, or it could show up as the need to problem solve. When I feel those types of things, I know it’s time to pull out my journal. I want to honour all of those reactions and not push them away, and also not keep them going. As I journal, I tune in to all the nuances of the situation, and the story I’ve started believing again. Then I let it all go and find out what is on the other side. It is a process I have used for decades and it never fails me. I can’t fix other people, but I can choose my actions and attitudes from a higher vantage point.
The Protective Stories We Tell Ourselves
A client of mine jokingly calls this “PMS — Poor Me Syndrome,” which makes me smile every time because it’s so spot‑on. That moment when someone disappoints us and suddenly the inner monologue becomes: They don’t care. I’m alone. Why do I even try. It’s natural to want the other person to change, to show up differently, to soothe the ache they’ve stirred in us. But that rarely moves us forward. If anything, it keeps us stuck in the same old loop.
And then the protective vows start forming:
Well, I’ll never invite them to do that again.
I’m done. I’m out. I’m closing the door.
Sometimes those boundaries are wise. But sometimes — and this is the tricky part — they’re just fear wearing a sensible outfit. It stops us from looking at things we can shift.
Finding the Middle Path
If we don’t feel fully okay with the protective story we’re telling, it’s worth pausing. Because what might we be missing? Often, it’s an opportunity for growth or expansion that we can’t yet see. Not until we sit with the discomfort long enough to hear what it’s trying to teach.
In a previous blog, The Middle Path, I wrote about the tension between two poles:
“They don’t care about me” on one side,
“They do care about me” on the other.
And the quiet, steady truth in the middle:
“I care about me.” “I care about them.”
That middle place is where resurrection happens — not in the dramatic sense, but in the subtle, everyday way we rise out of old patterns. You could call it coming back to center, or rising above.
Questioning the Thoughts That Keep Us Small
If you would like a great resource for this, I recommend Byron Katie’s Work and books. When we believe a thought makes us unhappy, she invites us to question it. To ask whether it’s true. To turn it around and see what else might be possible. I’ve used this many times, and it’s astonishing how often the turnarounds feel truer than the original belief.
They don’t care about me
→ I don’t care about me in this moment.
→ I don’t care about them right now.
→ They do care about me — just not in the way I expected.
Each turnaround opens a window. A little light gets in. And suddenly the story loosens its grip.
Remembering Our Connection to Source
As a student of A Course In Miracles (ACIM) and Kabbalah, and the ancient Hebrew/Sanskrit roots of our spiritual traditions, I’ve come to understand something that feels both simple and profound: we are all connected. Not metaphorically — literally. Plus, we are forever connected to Source. It is impossible not to be. We exist in a sea of consciousness.
When I remember that, everything softens. The limiting beliefs lose some of their authority. The “poor me” stories don’t grip as tightly. And the disappointments that feel so personal begin to look more like invitations — reminders to return to what is true. Love.
Whatever helps us keep that connection at the forefront — not just on holidays, but in the ordinary Tuesdays and the messy Thursdays — is priceless. Because when we remember our connection, rising becomes natural. Almost inevitable.
Rising as a Daily Practice
For me, rising has become a daily practice — a gentle commitment to lift myself back into truth and connection whenever I notice I’ve slipped into an old story. I’m no longer willing to stay in that heaviness, because I know it’s neither necessary nor productive. And the more I learn, the more I see that each of us has our own unique path toward healing — something astrology reflects beautifully. My own path hasn’t been easy, and that’s part of why I feel called to help others along the way.
A Human Invitation, not a Comparison
It’s not that I compare myself to the sacred narrative of Easter — far from it. Rather, I see that the invitation to rise is extended to all of us, in our own human way, through our own inner work, in the quiet moments when we choose not to stay small or to settle for limiting beliefs.
A Closing Invitation
Easter, then, becomes less of a holiday and more of an invitation:
Notice the belief that pulls you down.
Feel it in your body.
Question it.
Turn it around.
And rise — gently, steadily, in your own time — into the larger truth of your connected, luminous, resilient self.
