The Journey of Forgiveness

Let’s tell the truth — forgiveness may be one of the most impossible things Jesus ever invites us into. We talk about it in church and scribble about it in journal pages. We speak of it like it’s simple. But when hurts live in your bones, forgiveness rarely feels simple or quick.

And then there’s forgiving ourselves — that’s a whole other mountain. Sometimes that climb feels even steeper.

What do we do with this? What do we do when forgiveness feels more like a long, slow trek than a tidy prayer or single heroic moment?

We love clear steps, don’t we? But pain doesn’t follow a template. There is no three-step plan for a soul that has been wounded. Some hurts come with an apology attached. Some never will. Some people are long gone. And sometimes the most challenging mercy is the one we need to give ourselves, when we carry the weight of things we can’t undo.

There’s no one formula because there’s no one wound. And Jesus knows this. He sits with us in the mess where we wish we could rush past.

Forgiveness is complicated because we are complicated. Some pains hide for years before they rise to the surface, tangled in fresh grief. One wound pokes at another like a bruise under our skin. Our souls remember what we try to forget.

And so the journey is slow, but maybe it’s meant to be. Maybe there’s something holy in the slow work of healing. Jesus is not rushing you— He’s staying near.

Think about a toddler learning to walk. They don’t stand up and run in one attempt. They topple. They cling to furniture. They cry. And every stumble is still progress.

That’s how the Father sees you. He does not cross His arms waiting for you to get it “right.” He’s on the floor with you, steadying your wobbly legs, cheering you on. Every small step toward forgiveness — every shaky attempt, every pause to catch your breath — is precious to Him.

Our culture worships speed. But the Kingdom of God moves at the pace of relationship. The Spirit is more concerned with your becoming than your performance.

Forgiveness is not about moral superiority. It’s about freedom. It’s unclenching your fists, letting go of the rope that’s burning your hands. But sometimes, before we loosen our grip, we need to rest. To weep. To breathe. And that, too, is holy ground.

Sometimes the story is not just messy — it’s dangerous. Abuse. Betrayal. Cycles of harm.
Jesus does not ask you to pretend evil is good or remain in unsafe situations.

Forgiveness may not mean reunion or restored relationship. It may mean boundaries. It may mean grieving what could have been and releasing what cannot be.

“If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” (Romans 12:18)
Some things do not depend on you. And you are not meant to carry what is not yours to hold.

If forgiving someone — or yourself — feels impossible right now, you are not alone. The Holy Spirit is closer than your own breath. He does not say, “Come back when you’ve figured it out.”

He says, “Come now. Come as you are.” Forgiveness is not a place you arrive. It’s a place you pass through, again and again, with Jesus at your side.

For so many of us, the hardest thing is not extending mercy to others — but believing we are still loved after all we’ve broken.

But hear this: the cross was not a reward for the righteous. It was hope for the falling-apart.

You are not your worst day. You are not your biggest regret. You are not disqualified from grace. You are loved. Right now. Right here. You do not have to carry this alone.

Forgiveness may feel too big right now. That’s okay. The Spirit honors small beginnings.

Try this:

• Name the hurt. Sit with it. Invite Jesus into it.
• Pray honestly. Rage, weep, whisper what you cannot say to anyone else.
• Rest when you’re weary. God is not counting your pauses against you.
• Stay rooted in community. Let others remind you who you are and Who you belong to.
• Celebrate micro-wins. A softened heart. A moment of compassion. A deeper breath. These are miracles, too.

If you find yourself stuck in the in-between — tired, ashamed, or numb — hear this, beloved:
You are not failing. You are healing. You are not abandoned. You are held.

And Jesus will keep walking with you, all the way.