Let me ask you something, and be honest with yourself.
Have you ever:
Carried a hurt — a divorce, a betrayal, a loss — for years longer than you ever thought you would?
Been told to "just forgive and let it go" — and felt like a failure because you couldn't?
Forgiven someone in your heart on Sunday… then laid awake at 2am reliving the whole thing anyway?
Believed that because you still felt the pain, you must not have really forgiven?
Felt exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep, and opened your Bible looking for peace… only to close it more confused than when you started?
If you just nodded at even one of those, please keep reading. Because I want you to know something.
I was that woman.
After almost three decades, my marriage ended in a way I never saw coming. And in the years that followed, I did everything a good Christian woman is supposed to do. I went to church every single Sunday. I prayed. I told everyone — and myself — that I'd forgiven him.
But deep down, where the secrets are kept, I knew it wasn't true.
Because I couldn't forget. And I had spent my whole life believing that forgiving and forgetting were the same thing. So every time the memory came back — and it always came back — I'd think: I must not have really forgiven. What kind of Christian can't even do that?
The guilt piled on top of the hurt. The hurt hardened into a bitterness I couldn't shake. And underneath all of it I was just… tired. Exhausted by a fight I couldn't see and couldn't seem to win.
I knew the answer was supposed to be in my Bible. So I tried. I started a reading plan every January with real intention. I'd make it into Leviticus, read pages about animal sacrifices, and wonder what on earth any of it had to do with the weight I was carrying. By March I'd slow down. By April I'd quietly stop. And the one place that could have set me free stayed dusty on the table.
For years I thought the problem was me. My discipline. My faith. Maybe my heart was just too hard.
It wasn't any of those things.