Once a year, there’s a sacred kind of Sunday.
A time to reach out to loved ones.
To reflect on where we’ve been, and where we’re going.
To celebrate rebirth—the kind that doesn’t always come with trumpets and lilies, but with a quieter kind of grace.
The kind of change that sneaks up on you slowly, reshaping your soul one breath at a time.
This Sunday is about tradition.
Not the kind written into scripture, but the kind carved through lived experience.
It’s about honoring the tools that helped me become who I am.
It’s about remembering the moments I could’ve lost myself—and didn’t.
And it’s about gratitude. Real, earthy, heart-splitting gratitude.
Because I know how easily things could have gone another way.
I could’ve followed the path of suppression. Could’ve numbed the parts of me that hurt or felt too much.
I could’ve bought into the story that patience comes in pills, or that growth means gritting your teeth until you crack.
But instead—I found a plant. Or maybe it found me.
And slowly, I softened.
Not all at once. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just… a little more space.
A longer pause before I spoke. A deeper breath before I reacted.
The ability to laugh when I might have yelled.
To listen when I might have explained.
To hold my daughter not just with my arms, but with my full attention.
Cannabis taught me empathy.
Not in a single puff or edible, but in a cumulative unfolding.
It tuned me back to myself in a way that pharmaceuticals never could.
Not as a blunt instrument, but as a mirror—subtle, strange, forgiving.
It taught me how to feel without fear, and to sit with discomfort without letting it devour me.
Without herb, I don't know who I’d be.
But I doubt I’d be this version: the grounded father, the reflective partner, the seeker who found peace in absurdity and presence in silence.
So yes, this Sunday matters.
And sure, for some, it’s Easter. A day of resurrection. A celebration of sacred transformation.
And I honor that. Because I, too, have been transformed.
But for me, this Sunday will always be 4/20.
A holy day, in its own right.
The day I remember the gentle green that saved me—not with commandments, but with calm.
Not with fear, but with freedom.
Not with heaven, but with here.