Forgiveness

I can forgive other people easier than I can forgive myself.

When someone hurts me, I can usually find a way to understand it — to see their side, to let it go, to believe they didn’t mean the damage they caused. But when it comes to my own mistakes, my own choices, the weight is heavier.

I replay the things I did when I was lost, when I was drowning, when I was trying to numb pain I didn’t know how to carry. The words I said. The people I pushed away. The promises I broke. And even though I know I can’t go back, part of me still tries — as if punishing myself now could undo what’s already done.

The truth is, forgiveness for myself feels harder than healing. Harder than sobriety. Harder than change. Because it means accepting that I am human — that I was human even at my worst.

It means looking at the version of me I don’t want to remember and saying, you still deserve to come home.

I’m not there yet. Some days I’m closer. Some days I fall back into shame, into silence. But I’m trying. Because I know forgiveness isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about loosening its grip.

Forgiveness for myself is hard. But living without it is harder.