Reflections on Forgiveness

Last week I received a message that brought me face to face with a promise that I made to myself a little more than 10 years ago. As I made myself a coffee, I thought about who I was then and who I am now, and how I’ve managed to avoid this for so long—this being forgiveness.

As I sipped my coffee, I allowed myself a moment to visit the inner depths of my conscience; the hidden vaults that exist beneath my day-to-day thoughts to consider the feeling that I thought would evaporate over time but there it was—just as I left it. Suddenly, perhaps for the first time, I’ve realized the weight of this ostensibly forgotten experience.

In doing so, I found myself walking into the proverbial room of seemingly forgotten people and places where I was brought face-to-face with those who caused my lonely high school experience. One person in particular stands out. The person who overdid herself to out-do those around her; the same person who mocked me, envied me, wanted to be me—the sound of her laugh-induced cough still echoes in my ear.

As the memories flashed before my eyes, I thought about who I was then, and who I am now, and how I’ve grown seemingly far, far away from the people who used to hurt me only to realize that I’ve captured and carried their weight around with me in my pocket. After ten long years I’ve only just understood that my attempt to forget was merely an endeavour to avoid forgiving.

As I exited the room, I decided to leave behind a single pebble; the same pebble that has called my pocket home for ten long years; the very same pebble that has captured my resentment and crystallized my pain. I had no intention of getting rid of this pebble until the time came when it dropped from my fingers and landed onto the floor. As it shattered into a million tiny pieces, I put my hand to my pocket in disbelief. “Noticeably lighter,” I thought to myself as I exited the room.

I walked down the hallway and felt the remaining pebbles dance in my pocket, and I thought about the bystanders; the innocents who were afraid to go against the grain, drunk off the fumes of being a part of something bigger than themselves. As I imagined the faces of these teenage girls, unsure of who they are or where they are now, I counted out a pebble for each of them.

With each step I thought about someone new. I thought about the mean girl from university and the girl from middle school with the insecure boyfriend and the same last name.

And there I was, my hands full of pebbles, wondering how the hell I’ve carried around these little glass objects for so long as I opened my hands and watched them fall to the ground.

As the hallway came to an end, I thought about the person who wrote the message—someone who was once a friend though now a stranger. My initial reaction was to give a tightlipped-smile-of-a-reply; the kind of tightlipped smile that we give people when we pass them in the stairwell or in the hallway. And I did, but it didn’t feel like I hoped it would. I was hoping to indulge in the feeling of having the upper hand. I wanted to submerge myself in the pool of pride that I had saved for this day. But when this day arrived there was no winning, and no pool for that matter. Because, you see, there is no winner when it comes to forgiveness.

And with that, I pulled out the final pebble from my pocket and dropped it to the ground.

I didn’t want to forgive her. I didn’t want to forgive anyone. And yet, here I am, walking into a room of opportunity having forgiven the debts from my ostensibly forgotten past.

x V