Two years. That's how long it had been since I last saw them, the person who had hurt me the most. I thought I had moved on, but as the moment approached, my body betrayed me. My palms were clammy, my heart pounded as if trying to escape my chest, and my breath came in short, uneven gasps.
I envisioned the encounter a million times, debated whether I should find a way to avoid it. But there was no escape. So, I showed up. And they did too.
For the first few moments, my heart still hammered wildly, my feet tapped anxiously against the cold, gray tiles. But then, something unexpected happened. The shock of seeing them faded, and in its place, peace settled over me. Deep, resolute, and warm.
I had done the impossible. I had forgiven them.
After carrying resentment for so long, I had finally let go. And though a few things during our meeting annoyed me, like the way a random stranger in a crowded danfo spreads their legs too wide, intruding into your space, it wasn't the kind of pain that once split my heart in two. It wasn't the suffocating rage of betrayal; it was merely an irritation, a passing inconvenience.
People say the opposite of love is hate, but I disagree. It's indifference. You know you've healed when someone who once shattered you stands before you, and all you feel is nothing. Not love, not hate, just a quiet settlement deep in your soul.
A community member recently asked me, "How do you know you've truly forgiven someone? I ran into a person who caused me pain, and even though I thought I had let it all go, I still felt so much anger. Does that mean I haven't forgiven them?"
I smiled at their question, understanding all too well. So, here's what I told them.
As humans, we love to rush important things: healing, moving on, forgiveness. But none of these things follow our timelines. They are like an old woman with aching bones crossing the street, slow, deliberate, taking as much time as they need.
You don't move on from heartbreak in a few weeks, not when you spent years loving that person. You don't heal from trauma in a few months, not when it's been a part of you for so long. And forgiveness? It doesn't happen instantly, not when the wounds run deep.
I didn't always feel this peace. Just months before, I had seen that person and felt nothing but rage. The pain resurfaced so violently that it threatened to tear me apart again. But with time, something changed. Forgiveness warmed up to me, slowly, like the morning sun after a long, bitter winter.
And here's something else to understand. It's easy to think we've moved on until we come face to face with the source of our pain. Memories have a way of reopening wounds. This is something I explore in my novel, When Love Visits. Healing takes time.
And you might be wondering, Why do I even have to forgive? The answer is simple: For yourself.
Notice how none of my emotions that day were about the other person? They didn't know what I had carried in my heart, nor did they feel the weight of it. I was the one burning with resentment. And when I let go, I was the one who felt free.
We often believe that withholding forgiveness punishes the offender, but in reality, it only punishes us. They've already stolen our happiness; why let them steal our peace too? Forgiveness isn't about excusing what happened. It isn't about giving them access to your life again. It's about setting yourself free from the burden of pain.
That person never knew I had forgiven them. I never told them. I don't know what's happening in their life, and honestly? I don't care. That, dear friend, is how you know you've truly forgiven, when they become just another passing stranger in your life.
And when that moment comes, you'll feel it, a quiet, unwavering peace.
Freedom.
But let's talk about how I got here. Forgiveness wasn't easy. It was a journey filled with relapses, moments of doubt, and unexpected triggers. I spent nights replaying past conversations, arguments, betrayals, wondering how things had gone so wrong. I wrestled with questions that had no answers and longed for closure that might never come.
At first, I thought forgiveness meant absolution, that I had to excuse what they did, justify their actions in my mind. But that wasn't true. Forgiveness didn't mean pretending I wasn't hurt or allowing them back into my life. It simply meant I was done carrying the weight of what they did.
I found healing in unexpected places—conversations with friends, books that resonated with my pain, journaling my emotions late into the night. Some days, I felt lighter, almost free. Other days, resentment crept back in like an old, familiar shadow. But with time, those shadows lost their grip.
One of the most powerful lessons I learned was that forgiveness is a gift I give myself. It's not about them. It's about reclaiming my peace. And it happens gradually, sometimes without us even realizing it.
So, if you're wondering whether you've truly forgiven someone, ask yourself this: When you think of them, do you feel a burning anger, or just a passing thought? Do you still crave an apology, or have you accepted that you may never get one? Do you feel shackled by their memory, or have you finally broken free?
Forgiveness is freedom. And though the journey is long, it's worth every step.