the burden after forgiving someone

forgive them. that’s what they tell me.
but forgiving someone who has deeply wounded you?
it’s not as simple as just saying the words.
it’s not a clean slate.
it’s a storm,
a tug-of-war in your chest between resentment and release.

there are days when letting go feels like drowning—
like I’m giving up a part of myself,
like I’m setting fire to the truth of what happened,
as if forgiveness means pretending it never hurt,
as if it means erasing the damage.
and in those moments, I find myself stuck—
caught between grief and grudge,
clutching onto a pain that seems to define me.

i’ve wrestled with apologies that felt hollow—
words that drifted, cold and distant,
empty sounds that didn’t reach the depth of the wound.
there are apologies that arrive like band-aids on open wounds,
as though saying "i’m sorry" is enough to cover the bleeding.
but i’ve learned not all apologies are meant to heal;
some are just tools to make the offender feel lighter,
while you’re left holding the weight of their guilt.

i remember a particular apology.
it wasn’t an apology for the hurt,
but an apology for how i reacted to it.
as if my anger, my pain,
was the thing that needed fixing,
not the betrayal itself.
and in that moment, i felt the sharp sting of rejection—
a rejection of my feelings,
a rejection of the truth that had been ignored.

how do you forgive when the apology feels like an accusation?
how do you forgive when it feels like they’re asking you to accept their version of things,
to erase your own reality for the sake of their comfort?
it’s like being asked to swallow a lie and call it truth.
and I can’t do that.

forgiveness has always been sold as a gift,
something that frees you.
but the truth is, it’s not freedom,
it’s a surrender.
surrendering the right to be angry,
the right to demand accountability,
the right to hold on to something that feels just.
and that’s the part no one talks about.
because to forgive is to release your grip on what you think is yours to hold—
and that’s the hardest part.

there’s this strange, elusive peace that comes with forgiving,
but it’s not a sudden thing.
it’s a quiet, slow burn.
sometimes it’s not about the other person at all.
sometimes, it’s about finding a way back to yourself—
about unburdening your own soul
from the heavy weight of unresolved anger.
it’s about learning to live without carrying the scars of the past,
learning to stand in the present
without letting the past continue to pull you under.

and here’s the thing i’ve learned:
forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting,
it means no longer allowing the pain to control you.
it means choosing peace over perpetual struggle,
choosing to let go, even if the other person never asks for it.
choosing to heal on your own terms,
and not giving anyone the power to dictate when that happens.

forgiveness is a journey—
and it's one that no one else can take for you.
you’ll have to walk it yourself,
slowly, cautiously, painfully—
until one day, you realize the weight has lifted,
until you find that the burden of resentment doesn’t hold you in place anymore.
and in that silence, in that stillness,
there’s healing—
not because they’re absolved,
but because you’ve unshackled yourself from the chains of the past.

and that’s the paradox of it all:
you forgive not to free them,
but to free yourself.