There’s something strangely comforting about planning what you’ll say to someone who hurt you. You rehearse it in your head—maybe in the shower, maybe while pretending to listen during a work call. You imagine the shock on their face, the guilt finally catching up to them. You picture them saying, “I had no idea I did that to you. I’m sorry.” And just like that, your pain is validated, softened, maybe even erased.
Except that’s rarely how it goes.
More often, the pain sits untouched while you wait for an apology that may never come. You start bargaining with yourself—
maybe they didn’t mean it,
maybe you’re overreacting,
maybe now isn’t the right time to bring it up.
And in the meantime, you’re still bleeding, waiting for them to notice the wound they caused.
I’ve learned the hard way that the person who causes the pain isn’t always the person who will help you heal it. In fact, they often don’t even know you’re in pain—or worse, don’t care. And if you’re anything like me, you keep giving them second chances wrapped in silence, hoping your quiet endurance will eventually be rewarded with empathy.
It won’t.
What finally shifted for me was realizing that my healing didn’t need to be co-signed by the one who broke me. That forgiveness wasn’t some theatrical two-person ceremony where we hold hands, cry a little, and move on. It’s private. It’s gritty. It’s sitting alone with the ache and deciding you’re done letting it rot your peace.
That’s the real power move. Not the emotional monologue. Not the closure coffee date. Just saying to yourself, “I’m not carrying this anymore.” Not because they said sorry, but because your hands are tired.
And no, this doesn’t mean you keep them in your life while secretly resenting them. That’s not forgiveness—that’s emotional tax evasion. If you’ve let it go but still can’t be in their presence without flinching inside, maybe the relationship has expired. Continuing it would be like drinking curdled milk just because the carton looks fine.
Forgiveness, at its core, isn’t about repairing the relationship. It’s about not letting the damage fester in your body. It’s an exhale. A way of saying, “I matter more than what happened.”
I’m still figuring it out. Still catching myself wanting to explain my hurt in detail, just in case they didn’t quite understand the first hundred signs. Still learning that clarity doesn’t always come through conversation—it often comes through distance. And that relief isn’t something they’ll deliver like a parcel. You build it. Brick by messy brick.
So no, I don’t need you to say you’re sorry anymore.
I just need to stop waiting for you to.
Closure isn’t something they give. It’s something you take.
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