Forgiveness is one of the most misunderstood spiritual practices there is. Many people think forgiveness means excusing harmful behavior, pretending something didn’t hurt, or allowing someone to continue causing pain. But true forgiveness is not about denying what happened. It is about freeing yourself from carrying it forever.
Many of us have been taught that some acts are simply unforgivable. We keep mental ledgers of who wronged us, who betrayed us, and who caused us pain. We convince ourselves that holding onto resentment protects us or somehow honors the injustice we endured. But the spiritual truth is just the opposite. Unforgiveness does not imprison the person who hurt us—it imprisons us.
The word resentment literally means “to re-feel.” Every time we replay an old wound, rehearse an argument, or relive a betrayal, we ask our nervous system to experience that pain all over again. The other person may have moved on years ago, but we remain emotionally tethered to the experience. Judgment, blame, hatred, and resentment slowly erode our joy, chaining us to
moments in the past that continue to dictate our present. They rob us of the freedom to fully live today.
I know how difficult forgiveness can be. There are wounds that cut deeply. Some hurts alter the course of our lives. Yet I have also learned that unforgiveness quietly drains our life force. It narrows our joy, closes our hearts, and keeps us emotionally imprisoned long after the original event has passed.
History offers breathtaking examples of another way. After spending twenty-seven years in prison, Nelson Mandela chose not to be consumed by bitterness. He understood that if he walked out of prison carrying hatred for his captors, he would still be imprisoned. His forgiveness was not an endorsement of injustice; it was a declaration of his own freedom.
I have also been deeply moved by the family members of those murdered at Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, who stood before the man who had taken so much from them and offered words of forgiveness that stunned the world. Their grace did not erase the tragedy. It affirmed that love—not hatred—would have the final word.
Holocaust survivors have shared similar wisdom. Some have said that their greatest act of resistance was refusing to let unimaginable cruelty strip away their humanity. In circumstances almost beyond comprehension, they chose compassion over vengeance and hope over hatred. They understood that while others could imprison their bodies, only they could decide what
happened to their spirits.
And perhaps the hardest forgiveness of all is self-forgiveness.
Many of us carry shame for mistakes we made years—or even decades—ago. We replay old conversations, regret missed opportunities, or define ourselves by our worst moments. Yet the same grace we long to extend to others must eventually be offered to ourselves. Self-forgiveness is not denial or excuse. It is the courageous recognition that we are always more than our past actions. It is the willingness to learn, make amends where possible, and continue becoming the person God created us to be.
Forgiveness does not happen all at once. Sometimes it unfolds layer by layer. We forgive, only to discover another layer still waiting beneath the surface. That is not failure—it is growth. Forgiveness is not perfection; it is a spiritual practice.
Nor is forgiveness about forgetting. It does not mean abandoning justice or pretending harm never occurred. Rather, it is the conscious decision to stop allowing yesterday’s wounds to determine tomorrow’s possibilities. It is choosing freedom over captivity, healing over hurt, and love over fear.
The invitation is simple, though not always easy. Release what no longer serves you. Lay down the burden of blame. Extend compassion where your heart is ready. And if you cannot yet forgive another, begin by forgiving yourself.
Because forgiveness does not change the past.
It changes the person carrying it.
And in that sacred act of release, we discover that the one who is truly set free is us