I’m Not Ready to Forgive, But I’m Ready to Feel.

Forgiveness is not a doorway I can walk through just because someone else is waiting on the other side. It’s not a performance, not a milestone to check off, so the story can wrap up neatly. Forgiveness, for me, is a sacred threshold, and I won’t cross it until my body says it’s safe. Until my heart says it’s true. Right now, it’s neither.

I’m not ready to forgive. Not yet. But I am ready to feel. And that, in itself, is a kind of miracle. I’m ready to feel the grief that’s been hiding under my anger. The betrayal that still echoes in my chest like a song I didn’t choose. The longing for closure that may never come, and the ache of knowing I might have to live without it.

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Feeling is not weakness. It’s the first act of courage. It’s the moment I stop numbing and start naming. Today, I choose courage, not because I owe it to anyone else, but because I owe it to myself. I owe it to the version of me who stayed silent for too long. I owe it to the wounds that deserve to be witnessed before they’re asked to heal.

Forgiveness may come. Or it may not. I’m not rushing it. I’m not forcing it. I’m letting it unfold in its own time, like a flower that only blooms when the soil is ready. But feeling is here now, and I’m not turning away. I’m staying with it. I’m breathing through it. I’m letting it teach me what forgiveness never could: that I am worthy of my own tenderness, even when I’m not ready to let go.