I cannot wrap my head around forgiveness—it’s the letting-go, non-attachment, monk-in-lotus-position vibe that makes my brain back up like a men’s toilet on Super Bowl Sunday. Theoretically, forgiveness is a knight in shining armor, an “Alakazam!” magic-wand scrub brush sweeping clean my most unsavory moments. In reality, it’s a plate I want to palm and throw against the wall. Nothing about forgiveness feels easy or possible.
And maybe that’s because it isn’t.
Forgiveness might be the final-boss stage of healing. A practice, a discipline, a meditation. At this stage, everything is black-and-white. The wounds in us—vulnerable, confused, misunderstood—come to us like young Linus with his blanket, seeking guidance, care, someone to trust. Putting them off is no longer an option. Healing happens now.
Forgiveness isn’t something we aim at the past; it’s a hand extended toward the part of us still frozen in it. And unthawing requires warmth—again and again and again.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 