Taste of Forgiveness

Forgiveness is a terrain I never thought I’d cross—a landscape dense with memories I’ve been too afraid to sift through. But here I am, not forgiving for their sake, but for my own. Because forgiveness isn’t about absolving them; it’s about unclenching the fists I didn’t know I’d been holding since childhood.

I lost myself somewhere in those early years, in the chaos of hands that hurt instead of held, in voices that silenced instead of soothed. I didn’t realize that the person I was supposed to become had been buried under their actions, their choices. It took years to untangle their roots from the soil of my being, to understand that the anger I carried wasn’t entirely mine, that the shame they planted in me was never my burden to bear.

Forgiveness is not a pretty word. It’s raw and heavy, requiring me to revisit what I swore I’d forget. It’s less a sweeping absolution and more a steady chiseling away of the pain they left behind. With every small forgiveness—of myself, of others, of the world—I find pieces of me returning.

I forgive not to let them go but to reclaim myself. To say, you don’t get to live here anymore. This space is mine. This body, this mind, this future—they are mine.

So, I forgive with boundaries. I forgive without reunion. I forgive without losing myself to the old wounds again.

In this act, I find the newness: a version of me that is untethered from them, a person who is allowed to bloom without their shadow.

The past may never fully loosen its grip, but I am learning to live beyond it. To live as though I deserve light, peace, and the love I was always meant to feel—for myself, from myself. And in that forgiveness, I finally see myself clearly.

B