The Truth That Frees Us

Forgiveness is a holy act—but it’s not always tidy.

For many of us, the struggle isn’t in the idea of forgiveness. It’s in what to do when the person who hurt us won’t acknowledge the truth, or when others pressure us to “move on” before the healing has really begun.

I wrote this letter to Frank as a way of sorting through those thoughts. What does it mean to forgive without forgetting? To release someone without reconciling? And how do we guard our peace in the process?

Dear Frank,

Lately, forgiveness has been on my mind—not because of one specific situation, but because it seems to be everywhere: in quiet conversations with friends, in the way families try to heal, in moments where people long for peace, but quietly avoid the part where they tell the truth.

We talk about forgiveness often, but I’ve noticed how easy it is to slip into a version of it that looks like peace but doesn’t actually feel like truth. Sometimes, in our effort to “move on,” we end up moving around what really happened.

So I’ve been asking myself—gently, curiously—what does forgiveness actually mean? And what does it *not* mean?

Forgiveness, in its truest form, is a sacred release.

It is not denial.
It is not pretending something didn’t happen.
It is not forced reconciliation.
And it certainly is not the silencing of truth for the sake of appearance.

Forgiveness means that I hand the offense to God. I choose not to carry bitterness or seek revenge. I open my hands and say, “God, this no longer belongs to me. I give it all to you.”

But that doesn’t mean I stay in the same room. It doesn’t mean I offer the same access. And it doesn’t mean I rewrite history just to keep everyone’s holiday plans intact. (Cue the forgiveness confetti and the awkward family photos.)

Reconciliation is different.
Reconciliation takes two people—but not in the way people often assume.

It doesn’t mean both people were equally at fault. It doesn’t mean everyone has to apologize just to keep things even. It means that for true reconciliation to happen, the person who caused harm must be willing to name it, take responsibility, and work toward change.

Sometimes people say, “We’ve both made mistakes,” or “Let’s just move forward and do better.” And while that can sound fair, it often becomes a way of dodging the truth.

If one person was consistently mistreated and the other won’t acknowledge it, then reconciliation becomes just another performance of peace.

Forgiveness may still happen. But reconciliation—real reconciliation—cannot exist without truth-telling and accountability.

Sometimes, those on the periphery—friends, extended family, well-meaning observers—want to see things resolved quickly. They long for a neat package tied with a bow, a story that ends with hugs and holidays. But they’re not the ones who lived the experience. And sometimes, their desire for closure is more about their comfort than anyone else’s healing.

Forgiveness: the gift that keeps on giving, even when you’d rather return it.

Do we need reconciliation to move on?
This is a question that comes up a lot, especially for people of faith who value connection, healing, and peace.

Sometimes, reconciliation is a gift. A healing of relationship. A beautiful repair that brings new depth. Other times, it’s simply not possible—because the other person won’t acknowledge the truth, or because their presence in your life would cost you your peace.

You can forgive without reconciling. You can wish someone well and still keep your distance. And you can prioritize your mental and emotional health without guilt.

Because the truth is—sometimes, holding on to the *hope* of reconciliation can be just as draining as the original hurt. We replay conversations. We search for the perfect words. We hope they’ll come around, only to be met with silence, deflection, or blame. And every time we try again, we lose a little more of our peace.

At some point, the kindest thing we can do for ourselves is to stop expecting an apology that may never come. To stop handing over our energy to someone who won’t see us clearly. And to trust that God can hold what they won’t.

Releasing the hope of repair isn’t giving up on healing. It’s choosing your healing over their denial. It’s protecting your inner life—your calm, your creativity, your joy—from being chipped away by someone else’s blindness.

Sometimes, the most sacred boundary is the one that says: This is where the story changes, even if they don’t.

God doesn’t ask us to stay in relationships where we are chronically dismissed or hurt. He asks us to walk in truth and love—and sometimes love includes space.

Jesus never confused love with passivity.
He forgave those who hurt him, but he also walked away from people who refused to listen. He told the disciples to shake the dust from their feet. He did not chase the Pharisees down and beg them to have coffee and talk it out.

He did not confuse love with self-abandonment. And we don’t have to either.

The Role of Emotional Honesty
Whether it’s family or friendships, forgiveness —emotional honesty is often the missing ingredient. And when it’s missing, everything else gets distorted.

I’ve watched people speak in lofty ideals about peace and healing, all while refusing to acknowledge the actual harm that’s been done.

And then there are those who move through life cloaked in admiration—armed with just enough charm, intelligence, or godliness to quietly get away with harmful behavior. They build a shield out of approval and call it integrity. But applause is not accountability. And reverence doesn’t mean the truth was ever told.

I’ve also listened to others describe major life choices in detached, overly casual terms—never letting themselves feel what’s truly at stake.

But when we don’t tell the truth—to ourselves or to each other—our forgiveness becomes performative. Our relationships become shallow. And our words lose weight.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is simply say:
“This hurt me.”
“This mattered.”
“This isn’t the full truth.”

Because without honesty, reconciliation is a script.
Without honesty, forgiveness is cosmetic.
And without honesty, no one really gets to heal.

So, Frank… this is where I’ve landed for now. Forgiveness is not forgetting. It’s not pretending. It’s letting go of what doesn’t belong to me anymore, giving it to God, knowing I’ve acted in truth.  

Love,
Jane

Dear Jane,

You always do this—you make me sit up a little straighter in my lily pad chair and consider things I’ve tried not to.

I’ve long been a fan of peace—the quiet kind, the garden-growing kind, the put-the-kettle-on kind.

But lately I’ve begun to understand there’s another peace…
The kind that doesn’t depend on everyone else being comfortable.
The kind that comes when you stop rewrapping old stories with pretty paper and just let them be what they were.

I must confess: I once tried to tie a bow around something that had no business being gift-wrapped. It was an apology I never received, from someone still narrating the story like they were the hero—summarizing events for others, editing out the parts that mattered, and calling it closure.

And I kept waiting for the neat conclusion, the music swelling, the tidy epilogue. But as you’ve reminded me—some stories don’t end that way.
Some stories just let you walk out the back door into a quiet, honest morning. And when you do, you realize—the peace you were waiting for was never going to come from them. It comes from God. 

Thank you for naming what most frogs (and humans) are afraid to say:
Forgiveness is a release, not a reenactment.
And sometimes, the best closure is just a very well-built boundary.

Always listening,
Frank