Every year, no matter how mentally prepared I am, Passover (Pesach) comes upon me too quickly. In my head, I’ve got a plan, and on paper I have lists. Many lists. But all too soon, the boxes are being dragged up from the garage, the cleaning borderlines on obsessive and the kitchen gets turned into a spaceship. And just as quickly, too, that familiar sense of dread sets in.

I’ve gotten to know the Passover-dread well. I can describe its shape, form, colour. Or maybe I can just sense it. Either way, it sets in early, signalling my least favourite time of year. If I could skip it, I would. Yes, I dislike it that much.

As a kid, Passover meant lack of routine and change. My parents’ house would get a spring cleaning like no other. Down went the curtains, in came the carpet cleaner. Even the pinboard got rearranged. Out with the old, in with the new.

It meant sitting cross legged on the floorboards with my sisters, eating pizza straight out of the box, which was laid out on a double spread of newspaper. And later, taking that same newspaper and wrapping ten individual pieces of bread for my father to find, as he searched for anything deemed forbidden during Passover, or any ‘chametz.’

The traditions didn’t seem so extreme when I was a kid, it was all I’d ever known. And there was something adventurous about it all. The rush, the buzz.

Now, as an adult, I’m the one buying the pizza, and paying for it. I’m the one cleaning my house. And my husband is the one searching for those ten pieces of bread. Although I’m still the one who hides them, it’s not so much a game as a part of what we have to do to prepare for this holiday. And it’s a lot.

The theme of Passover is freedom, mirroring the redemption of the Jews from Egypt so long ago. I’ve struggled with the notion of freedom in my adult years. How can anyone really be free, when there are bound to be barriers in the way? What is freedom, anyway? And how can a festival that involves so much physical labour bring a sense of freedom?

I don’t have those answers. So, instead, I’m trying to think of Passover as the festival for second chances. Our clean houses are a blank slate, an opportunity to start afresh. The lack of bread for the week, a chance to get back to basics, like a cleanse, of sorts.

And the whole freedom thing? Well, there are second chances for that, too. It’s never too late, right?