Some of the heaviest things I’ve ever carried
never touched the ground.
Old mistakes.
Silent blame.
Conversations that never happened,
but still take up space in my head.
And forgiveness?
It always sounded like a gift I was supposed to give someone else.
But it wasn’t.
It was mine.
The permission to stop tightening my chest every time I remembered what I could’ve done better.
The freedom to stop rehearsing pain just to prove I learned from it.
Forgiveness didn’t mean I condoned it.
Or forgot it.
It meant I finally put it down.
The grudge against others.
The resentment toward myself.
The shame I wore like armor, just in case someone saw the cracks.
You can’t move freely when you’re wrapped in old stories.
You can’t breathe deeply when your heart is still bracing.
Forgiveness is a softness that says:
You don’t have to carry this anymore.
Not for them.
Not even for closure.
Just for you.
Let something fall off your shoulders today.
Even if no one hears it hit the floor but you.
That’s the Cushy way.
