forgiveness and love

Forgive and forget.

Forgive, but never forget.

I am still learning what forgiveness really is.

Growing up, forgiveness was something that was taught in Sunday School. You need to forgive others because that's what Jesus did. If He could forgive those who betrayed Him, who was I to withhold it from anyone?

Being around the spiritually pious, I felt weak whenever I held onto anger, which, if I'm honest, I did a lot.

It felt like a sin to feel wounded, to acknowledge harm. How could I, a mere sinner, cast judgment? So, I forgave quickly. I forgave automatically. And in doing so, I thought I was being righteous. I didn't know that I was silencing myself.

I didn't know I was teaching others that they could hurt me without consequence.

Forgiveness became a kind of erasure. Not of the pain, but of my voice.

I made myself smaller to "be a good Christian," when in reality, I was never meant to shrink at all. I confused silence with grace. I thought martyrdom meant maturity.

If I could go back, there are people I wouldn't forgive.

Not out of spite—but out of self-respect.

I stayed trapped for years in a cycle that made me weak, all because I thought I had to forgive to be good. To be holy. To be lovable.

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I don't want to believe that forgiveness is not a beautiful thing. Because when it is real, when it is deserved, it blooms. It turns a withered rose back to life. It softens us. It sharpens us. It teaches us strength through vulnerability.

Forgiveness makes us more human, not less.

But forgiveness should not be currency. It should not be an obligation.

It should be earned. It should be offered with intention.

It should come from overflow, not from emptiness.

Now, I'm learning to forgive someone I've long ignored: myself.

Forgiving myself for not knowing better.

For giving too much. For being too soft.

For not drawing the line when I should have.

For mistaking passivity for peace.

I gave away my forgiveness like candy, hoping it would make others sweet.

Now, I am slowly learning to taste the sweetness of forgiving myself.

And that might be the most sacred kind of grace