I’ve always been the person who preaches forgiveness. The one saying “just let it go,” brushing off hurt and moving forward without holding grudges.

But the older I get and the more life decides to humble me, I realize there’s only so much forgiving you can do before you start losing little pieces of yourself and you start confusing forgiveness with self-betrayal.

At some point, always being the bigger person just starts making you feel… smaller. And I’ve come to learn that maybe the problem isn’t you; but maybe you’re just hanging around too many little people.

(And no, this is not about height. I’m 5’1, life from this altitude is already humbling enough.:))

There’s this silent, never-ending expectation to just keep forgiving. To turn the other cheek and take the high road. But no one talks about how lonely the high road is when you’re the only one walking it.

When you reach this point of realization, it’s not about forgiving them.

It’s about asking yourself why you’re still sitting at the same table with people who keep serving you pain.

In therapy, we talk about forgiveness a lot- how it’s essential for healing, how holding onto resentment can keep you stuck, how you have to forgive others, and even yourself, to finally move on.

But I find myself wondering… Is it really forgiveness that you need? Or is it just release? Is it simply the act of putting the weight down, regardless of whether or not the people who hurt you ever change?

And what does forgiving yourself even mean? How do you do it? Is it true you can’t move forward until you do?

It’s one thing to forgive other people for what they’ve done. But forgiving myself for the times I stayed too long, tolerated too much, kept turning the other cheek when I knew I was running on empty? That’s been harder.

You hear it everywhere- “Forgiveness is part of healing.” “Forgive yourself to move on.” And yes, there’s truth in that.

But there’s a part that often gets overlooked: Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened. It doesn’t mean excusing the harm. And it definitely doesn’t mean forcing yourself to feel peace when all you feel is hurt.

There’s a point where forgiveness stops being healing and starts being harmful:

• When it’s about survival, not growth.
• If you’re just trying to keep the peace, not stir the pot.
• When you’re handing out second chances like candy to people who’ve already chewed you up and spit you out.

Forgiveness doesn’t always look like reconciliation or wiping the slate clean. Sometimes, forgiveness is simply saying:

“I don’t have to keep reliving this.”

“I don’t have to keep holding this pain.”

“I’m done carrying this. I’m done carrying them. And I’m done carrying the shame of finally choosing myself.”

And the hardest person to forgive is yourself for:

Ignoring the red flags.

Letting them hurt you again.

Believing people would change.

That’s it.

That’s the moment healing starts.

And if you’re still figuring out how to forgive yourself?

Same. Me too.

That’s just part of the process. The first step is realizing you never had to be superhuman in the first place.

And when you’re ready, in your own time, forgiveness can be yours too.

Not as a gift to them.
But as freedom for you.

There’s something oddly comforting about ending the day the same way I did when I was five years old, like wrapping myself in a piece of home no matter where I am.

It makes me feel like I’m tethered to something bigger, something familiar, especially on nights when the only thing standing between me and the endless scroll of anxious thoughts is a whispered prayer I’ve said a thousand times before.

It was this whole other side of growing up religious that no one really warned me about. The side that clings to you even after you’ve left the church building. The guilt. The shame. The fear of somehow getting it wrong.

And that’s where the quiet panic begins.

And as kids, we listen. We absorb. And then, 20 years later, we wonder why we can’t sleep at night, why we ruminate over every mistake, why “forgive yourself” feels impossible.

And I know I’m not alone.

“Don’t lie.”

So what happens when you slip up?

Maybe you told a lie. Or skipped church. Or dated someone you shouldn’t have. Or questioned what you’d been taught.

Cue the guilt.

Then the internal monologue becomes:

“I’m disappointing God.”

“I’m not good enough.”

“I’ve failed.”

That’s the part we don’t talk about enough:

How faith can coexist with fear. How anxiety can masquerade as devotion. How guilt, if we’re not careful, can become the engine of our spirituality instead of love.

Religious shame doesn’t just say, “I did something wrong.”

It whispers “ I am what’s wrong.”

And that kind of shame follows you into adulthood in ways you don’t always recognize:

• Struggling to set boundaries because being “selfish” feels sinful.
• Feeling anxious about resting, relaxing, or enjoying yourself because you were taught to constantly serve and give.
• Over-apologizing.
• Silencing your opinions to avoid being “rebellious.”
• Feeling disconnected from your own body, your desires, your instincts.

And I’ve seen firsthand how these beliefs follow people into therapy rooms, sitting between us like an uninvited guest.

I remember a supervisor once bragging that he turned away a client because they were an atheist. He said, and I quote,

Where I’m from, there’s this unspoken (and sometimes loudly spoken) rule:

If you don’t believe in the “right” thing, You’re an outsider. An antichrist. A problem.

And hearing that as a practicing therapist? It’s disturbing. Because what happens when someone’s suffering doesn’t align with the teachings they were raised with? What happens when faith starts fueling the very anxiety it’s supposed to soothe?

That’s the kind of thing nobody prepares you for.
The silent battles. The guilt. The endless loop of “if only my faith was stronger…”

And growing up, I heard a lot of that. A lot of “us” and “them.” Who’s “saved” and who’s “lost.” Who’s “good” and who’s “wrong.”

But after everything I’ve studied, after all the people I’ve sat across from and listened to, I don’t think it works like that. I don’t believe one religion is better than another. Because at the core, the golden thread running through every major belief system is simple:

Psychology calls it reciprocity.

I’ve seen people carry guilt that wasn’t theirs to hold.

Shame that was planted in them before they even had the words to name it.

And I’ve seen the damage done when religion is used as a measuring stick for worthiness.

Because here’s what I believe growing up has taught me:

• You are allowed to have faith without fear.
• You are allowed to question and still be devout.
• You are allowed to love your religion while discarding the parts that taught you to hate yourself.
• You are allowed to heal from doctrines that were used to control you instead of comfort you.
• You are allowed to build a relationship with your higher power that is based on love, not shame.

Here’s where I’ve landed: I don’t believe any higher power, in any form, wants us living in constant guilt or shame.

What I believe is this: Your relationship with the divine, whatever that means to you, is yours to build. Yours to nurture.

And for me, I always find the most comfort in knowing that I have someone to talk to just as my clients do. Someone who doesn’t judge, doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t roll their eyes.

It’s a deep, unwavering comfort of being truly known and still fully loved. And when I pray, it isn’t performative. I’m not trying to be “good.” I’m just… talking. Sharing. Trusting that I’m heard. That’s the faith I choose now.

And I think anyone can feel that same peace, no matter what they believe.

Because it’s less about the name we give to our higher power and more about the relationship we build with it. When you strip away the fear and guilt, when you sit quietly with your own idea of the divine, what’s left should feel safe and freeing, not suffocating. Like the version of love that never asks you to earn it.

It’s not fear anymore.

It’s home.