I used to think that forgiveness meant letting him off the hook. That saying what happened was okay. I used to think it meant forgetting, trusting again, no longer being angry and simply moving on.
I soon realised that none of those things are necessary for forgiveness, and none of them are what forgiveness means to me.
I didn’t forget. I don’t forget. And I’ll probably never forget.
The day I found out will be forever etched in my mind. I remember where I was in the caravan when I saw the text. I remember exactly where I was when I took the life-altering call that confirmed everything. I remember the look on a random woman’s face as I broke down on the phone to one of my closest friends.
I haven’t forgotten the feeling of having my heart ripped from my chest. The panic attack that followed. The racing thoughts of, “What the fuck do I do now?”
I remember the voice of my friend in my ear telling me to pack everything, get in the car and drive to her.
I remember the cry of my son as I took him out of his dad’s arms and the meltdown that followed as I tried to place him in the car.
I remember exactly where I was standing when I said to him, “It’s time to stop lying.”
I remember the look on his face when I confirmed that I knew everything. The terror in his eyes as I threatened to break our family apart.
These memories aren’t going anywhere.
There was a version of me that existed before all of this, and although that version no longer exists physically, she still exists in my mind.
The incredibly carefree 20-something-year-old who thought she had the most perfect relationship. The trust I gave so freely. The nonexistent boundaries I never felt I needed to have in place. The woman who gave her all to a man who would eventually get lost and break her heart.
I remember the devastation it brought upon my life, my soul and the piece of my heart that will probably always be shattered.
I will never be that person again.
She’s gone.
But out of all that devastation grew the fiercest version of myself I’ve ever known.
I no longer sacrifice myself and my needs for others. I no longer abandon myself to keep someone else happy. I know my worth in a way I never did before.
And I love the woman who grew from the darkness.
Remembering these things doesn’t mean I’m choosing to live within them.
For a long time, I thought forgiveness was something I had to give to him. Something he needed from me before we could truly move forward.
But slowly, I started to realise that forgiveness wasn’t really about him at all.
It was about me.
It was about releasing myself from the weight of something I never chose. From constantly replaying the details, asking myself what I could have done differently, wondering why I wasn’t enough and comparing myself to someone else.
It was about accepting that I could never change what happened, no matter how many times I went over it in my head.
And perhaps the hardest person I’ve had to forgive has been myself.
I’ve had to forgive myself for not seeing it sooner. For trusting so completely. For the times I questioned my own intuition. For the anger, the resentment, the questions, the checking, the spiralling and the days when I didn’t recognise the woman I had become.
I’ve had to forgive myself for healing slowly.
For having good days and then falling apart again.
For not knowing what I know now.
For staying.
For being human.
None of those things made me weak.
They made me human.
I didn’t cause his choices.
I couldn’t have loved him enough to prevent them. I couldn’t have been prettier enough, happier enough, more available enough or somehow been a better version of myself to guarantee that he wouldn’t betray me.
His choices were his own.
And I think that’s where forgiveness began for me.
Not with excusing what happened. Not with forgetting it. Not with pretending that it didn’t change me.
But with finally understanding that I didn’t need to keep punishing myself for something I didn’t do.
Maybe forgiveness isn’t about setting someone else free.
Maybe sometimes, it’s about finally setting yourself free.
I didn’t forgive because what happened wasn’t important.
I forgave because I didn’t want what happened to have the rest of my life.
And I’m learning that forgiveness isn’t the finish line.
It doesn’t mean the triggers disappear. It doesn’t mean there aren’t hard days. It doesn’t mean trust is automatically restored or that the wounds no longer hurt.
You can forgive and still remember.
You can forgive and still have boundaries.
You can forgive and still have moments of anger.
You can forgive and still be changed by what happened.
Because forgiveness doesn’t erase the wound.
It simply means you’re no longer allowing the wound to dictate where you go next.
Forgiveness means I’m no longer allowing someone else’s choices to have permanent ownership over my peace.
And maybe that is what forgiveness really means to me.
Not forgetting.
Not excusing.
Not letting him off the hook.
Just refusing to let something someone else did determine the woman I become.
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