Forgiveness
A poem (and essay)
Forgiveness This is for you, not anyone else. It isn't easy at all, I know. You can't say every- thing is alright without some kind of proof. Not everything is alright. And this is where to start. To push aside the heavy curtains, to lift the rug and roll it away, to look under the bed and bring everything out, the tangled balls of dust, every little thing you've hidden away, now meeting the light. You won't like doing this. No one likes doing this. But, dearest, no one will do this work for you. You need to slug this out yourself. And, after every- thing, to have the courage to say, "I love you, anyway." Not many people will say this to you in your life- time. Maybe no one will. But you could say it. To every lump and scar and stain. To every wart and lesion and hidden pain. I'll love you through this grief (and joy, but this is always ever so brief). I'll love you through this numbness, dear one, until you feel again. April 4, 2026, Black Saturday Inspired by Beth Kempton’s SoulSpark on March 30, 2026, Twin. Image mine
I have never believed that forgiveness is gentle or effortless. If anything, I have always known it to be difficult, but knowing that and actually doing it are two very different things. This poem came from that space in between—the awareness of how hard forgiveness is, and the quiet decision to step into that difficulty anyway.
Over the course of Holy Week, I found myself sitting with that tension. There is something about Semana Santa that invites a deeper kind of reflection, one that does not allow easy answers. I couldn’t tell myself everything was alright because it wasn’t. And I think that is where forgiveness truly begins—not in comfort, but in truth. In admitting that there are things within me that remain unsettled, unhealed, and hidden.
And perhaps that is what makes it worth doing. Not because it becomes easier, but because it allows me to meet myself more fully.
To push aside the curtains. To lift the rug. To look under the bed. These are not small acts. They require a willingness to see what I have avoided, to face the accumulation of what I have tucked away over time. There is resistance in that process. A part of me would rather leave things undisturbed, to keep the illusion of order. But forgiveness does not allow for that kind of avoidance. It asks for exposure, for everything to be brought into the light, even the parts I would rather not claim.
What makes it even more demanding is the solitude of it. No one else can do this work for me. There is support, there is grace, there is the presence of something greater that holds space—but the actual act of confronting, of staying, of choosing, belongs to me alone. It is a kind of soulwork that cannot be delegated. And that is where its weight comes from.
At the heart of the poem is a line that feels both simple and almost impossible: “I love you, anyway.” Not after everything is fixed, not once I become better, but in the middle of the mess. To say that to myself, to every flaw and scar and hidden pain, requires a kind of courage I am still learning to gather. Because it means letting go of the condition that I must first be worthy before I can be loved.
There is something deeply spiritual in this process. During these days of Holy Week, I felt held in a way that is difficult to articulate—by God, by the Source, by something that kept me present even when the work felt heavy. But that presence did not replace the work. It made it possible. I still had to enter the shadowed spaces within myself. I still had to choose to stay.
Forgiveness, for me, is not a resolution. It is a practice of return. A return to honesty, to compassion, to the willingness to feel again. Even in numbness, even in grief, there is a quiet commitment to remain open. To trust that feeling will come back, that something within me will soften over time.
And perhaps that is what makes it worth doing. Not because it becomes easier, but because it allows me to meet myself more fully. To stand in the light of everything I am, and still choose to stay, still choose to love.
If you found inspiration in these words, please send me a coffee. Otherwise, just stopping by to read these words means the world to me. Thank you.