Forgiveness isn’t a one-time decision. It’s a slow, aching process—like pulling out a thorn that’s been buried under the skin for too long. Especially after divorce or separation, forgiveness can feel like the hardest part. Not just forgiving them, but forgiving yourself.
I used to think forgiveness meant saying, “It’s okay.” But what happened wasn’t okay. The betrayal. The disappointment. The years I gave. The parts of myself I lost. Some wounds cut so deep, the idea of forgiveness feels like betrayal of your own pain.
But I’ve learned that forgiveness isn’t about pretending. It’s not about denying what was done or how much it hurt. Forgiveness is about choosing freedom. Mine.
Because carrying bitterness started to feel heavier than the grief. Anger took up too much space in my body. I couldn’t move forward while still clinging to the wreckage.
Forgiveness, for me, looked like letting the past be the past, without trying to rewrite it. It meant choosing peace, even when justice didn’t look the way I wanted it to. It meant allowing myself to stop rehearsing the hurt, to stop needing an apology that may never come. It meant making room in my life for joy, even if the pain still echoes sometimes.
In nature, even trees that are struck by lightning don’t stop growing. They carry the mark, yes—but they keep reaching for light. They don’t forget the storm. They just don’t let it define the rest of their life.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean reunion. It doesn’t mean trust is restored. It means you stop drinking the poison. You stop bleeding for someone else’s wounds. You take your life back.
It’s not soft or passive—it’s brave. And it’s yours to give, when and if you’re ready.
You don’t owe forgiveness to anyone. But if you ever decide to offer it, let it be for your freedom—not their comfort.