Easter is approaching and with it comes painful memories from my childhood.

For whatever weird reason, I always loved Easter more than Christmas when I was growing up. Maybe it's because Easter is the only holiday my entire family spends together. Maybe it's because Easter always has better weather. Whatever reason, I just knew Easter was the best.

And with that love for Easter came a passion for the Easter Bunny.

Ah, yes, the Easter Bunny. A giant bunny who hops around and hides Easter baskets in your house. I thought the Easter Bunny was the coolest dude in the world and I totally believed that he was real.

While I started doubting Santa Claus from a young age and wasn't surprised to find out he wasn't real, I was always certain that the Easter Bunny was as real as I am.

And my parents totally encouraged this belief. One year they went so far as to stuff tufts of cotton ball in our front door, saying that the Easter Bunny's tail must have gotten stuck when he closed the door behind him. Real creative, right?

But believing in the Easter Bunny ended up being horrible for my wellbeing. After years of living in bliss, knowing in my heart that the Easter Bunny must be real, my mom finally broke the news: the Easter Bunny is not real.

This realization made my entire childhood feel like a lie. If my parents were willing to lie to me about the Easter Bunny, what else had they lied to me about? How would Easter ever be the same?

Although I've grown up and the pain has mostly subsided, every year I still think about how sad it is that the Easter Bunny isn't real. Luckily, my mom has made up for it by still hiding an Easter basket in our house for me.