I want to forgive.
I’ve whispered those words in the quiet of my mind
so many times,
as though saying them enough
could make them true.

But the weight of it is heavy—
too heavy for my trembling hands.
Their words still echo in the hollow places of me,
their actions carved into my skin,
not visible but etched deep.
And every time I reach for forgiveness,
it slips through my fingers
like trying to hold water in a clenched fist.

They tell me forgiveness is freedom.
Not for them,
but for me.
That it’s the key to my peace,
a way to loosen the grip
their memory has on my soul.
I want to believe them.
I need to.

But how do I let go of pain
that clings like a second skin?
How do I quiet the questions that rage in me—
Why did they? How could they?
Why wasn’t I enough?

And then there’s Him.
The one who forgives so effortlessly,
so completely,
it leaves me in awe.
I look at my scars
and think of the weight He carries—
my failures, my faults,
all the times I’ve been the one to hurt,
to break,
to leave marks on others.
And yet,
He forgives me still.

How does He do it?
How does He look at the mess of me
and call me redeemed?
It baffles me,
it humbles me,
and in my better moments,
it gives me hope.

If He can forgive,
then maybe I can too.
Maybe not today,
not yet,
but one day,
when the ache isn’t so sharp
and the anger isn’t so loud.

Forgiveness isn’t easy,
it’s a battle I fight with myself
every day.
But I know this much—
I owe it to myself to try.
Not for them,
never for them.
But for me.

And so, I’ll keep praying,
keep asking for the strength I don’t have yet.
I’ll remind myself of His grace
every time I falter,
every time I wonder if it’s worth it.

One day,
when the time is right,
I’ll unclench my fist,
let go of the weight,
and forgive.
Not because it’s easy,
but because it’s necessary.