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“Forgiveness is a painful and difficult process. It’s not something that happens overnight. It’s an evolution of the heart.” ~Sue Monk Kidd
Sometimes I hear the word “forgiveness” and I cringe.
I’ve been wrestling with this all year because I realized something really uncomfortable: When I look back at those moments where I felt betrayed, in most instances, I wasn’t a victim of other people’s bad behavior—I was a willing participant.
For years, I stayed in one-sided relationships and situations that asked me to shrink and conform to other people’s expectations. I gave everything and got crumbs (and this includes some family).
I accepted criticism of my loving actions without expressing how I felt.
I walked on eggshells, hoping to minimize the behavior that hurt me, losing myself in the process.
Still, I “performed” forgiveness after every slight, every disappointment, and every broken promise. I thought that made me evolved. It actually made me complicit in my own erosion.
Getting past this has required a lot of commitment and patience, and I’m still working on it. So I’ve been reflecting a lot about what forgiveness actually is, what it isn’t, and what it requires.
For years, I thought forgiveness meant being the bigger person. It meant letting things go quickly, moving on, and not holding grudges. But I didn’t realize that my version of forgiveness was just another form of self-abandonment.
I was performing forgiveness while my nervous system was still screaming. And this was a pattern.
For example, someone close to me used to sidestep my feelings, blow through my boundaries, and use any double standard to ensure there were exceptions to the rules for their behavior. And I wouldn’t take up space. I’d let them take and take.
I’d justify their behavior because I wanted to take the high road, because there was an expectation to forgive quickly and move on. So I did. I chose not to be difficult. But my body kept the truth.
Your body knows when someone is being hurtful. For me it was a stomach drop, a feeling of panic, and a sting in my chest. Those were sensations demanding attention, but I silenced them with justifications.
I was saying “I forgive you” because I thought it was the loving thing to do, while my body was still trying to process what had happened.
What I know now is this: forgiveness is a process that only works when the body feels safe enough to soften. And where there is real love, there’s space and grace, and no one forces you to just get over it.
Forgiveness cannot be rushed,. It has to happen organically, and it goes far beyond repeating an affirmation while your nervous system is in survival mode.
Before we can forgive, we need to acknowledge the truth of what happened. Even if we never share the truth with the person who caused the pain. Sometimes it lives in a letter you never send. Sometimes you scream it into a pillow at 2 a.m. What matters is that it gets expressed.
But even before truth can be spoken, something else usually rises—anger.
Anger needs a voice.
We often silence, minimize, or spiritualize away our rage. But trying to forgive without tending to that anger is like putting a Band-Aid over a gaping wound. It doesn’t heal; it festers.
Anger needs expression. But expression is not projection. This is between you and the anger and not a license to burn down everyone around you.
One practice that helped me was learning to give anger a contained space. I’d set a timer for fifteen minutes and let it speak. Write it out. Breathe through it. Let it move without letting it drown me.
When the timer ended, I’d step back.
And when anger arose at inconvenient moments, I didn’t bypass it. I acknowledged it: I hear you. I feel you. We have an appointment later.
Because anger has layers. Sometimes it takes more than one appointment. But when it’s tended to—without indulgence and without denial—healing begins naturally.
Only then can truth be spoken without re-injuring yourself. Only then can the body soften.
Look at your side of the street first.
Something that accelerated this process was looking at my own role in adult relationships. When I looked back on instances where I felt betrayed or disappointed, I examined my side first.
What did I allow? What didn’t I express? What was I trading in the name of love?
In most cases, my choices weren’t conscious. I acted based on what I knew then. I realized I couldn’t shame past versions of myself. Just like a parent can’t shame a child who needs safety, you’re reparenting the parts that needed guidance. This is where you validate yourself and see yourself.
What really cracked the code for me was speaking to the part of me that was hurt. Going into the experience of who I was then and getting to know this version intimately. I told her: I see you. I know what happened. Here’s what we could do differently. I think it’s time we let this go, and I’m going to be there to let it go with you. What do you think?
The material from childhood, when you were innocent and unable to defend yourself, is much harder to forgive. Still, whether the hurt came from childhood or adulthood, the process is the same.
Don’t give your power away to people who can’t hold it.
As the layers shed, something changes. Not because someone apologized. Not because there was validation. But because you finally see yourself.
Eventually, maybe, curiosity shows up. You start to wonder why people do what they do. That understanding doesn’t erase your experience. It gives you wisdom. It teaches you discernment.
You learn that not everyone has the capacity to love you well, and you stop pretending otherwise. You honor yourself accordingly.
And perhaps one morning you wake up and notice there’s no longer a sting. Less charge. More neutrality. You remember what you learned without reliving the wound.
That’s forgiveness.
Forgiveness is a gift to yourself.
Once your body gets its energy back, once it remembers its truth, something powerful shifts. You don’t have to make it happen.
You do the work of honoring your anger, speaking your truth, and protecting your boundaries. And then one day, forgiveness arrives. Not because you were good enough, but because your nervous system finally felt safe enough to let go.
And maybe, after you’ve gone through it all, you arrive at what Danielle LaPorte calls “bless and release.” But only after the brutal work of honoring what hurt.
Forgiveness is not an affirmation.
Not a performance. Not a moral obligation.
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the person who hurt you takes accountability and trust can be rebuilt. That’s the Hollywood ending. It happens, but not always.
And sometimes forgiveness looks like this:
Your heart still chooses love, but from across the street. With peace in your own home.
And that is enough.
Because the rage no longer consumes you. Because you honored yourself.
That, too, is forgiveness.
So if you’re standing in the thick of it right now, if forgiveness feels impossible or like something you’re being pressured into, let me tell you: you’re not failing, and you don’t have to listen to anyone who tries to rush you.
Heal first. Give anger its due. Speak your truth. And find an identity outside your pain.
When it’s ready, forgiveness will come. Not because you willed it, but because you made space for it.
About Christine Rodriguez
Christine Rodriguez is a spiritual life coach dedicated to helping others transform beliefs, thoughts, feelings, and behaviors that no longer serve them so they can create a life that’s aligned with their true desires and capabilities. To work with her, please visit miraculousshifts.com. You can find her on Instagram @miraculousshifts_christy.
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