Chioma Rosemary Onyekaba

Forgiveness is not difficult. That is the tragedy.
It flows too easily, so much that people have learned to misuse it. They wrong you without hesitation because they know forgiveness is waiting, patient like water at the edge of a desert. They pierce you with words, betray you with actions, shatter your trust until you are gasping for air, and then they stand before you with calm faces and utter the words they believe will wash everything away: I am sorry.

And the world claps. They gather around your pain like spectators at a show, reciting mercy, grace, and love as though their chorus can heal you. They tell you to let go. They tell you to forget. They crown forgiveness as noble. But these voices speak from a safe distance. They are not the ones bleeding through sleepless nights with a chest full of invisible cuts from the hands of those they dare to demand your forgiveness.

It is always easy to preach forgiveness when the fire is not burning your own skin. It is easy to speak of forgetting when it is not your memory that replays betrayal like a broken song. Only when the wound shifts to their own hearts do they discover that forgiveness is not a soft word. Forgiveness is war. It is carrying scars and still choosing to stand. It is bleeding and still choosing to walk.

But here lies the truth. Forgiveness is not weakness. It was never the problem. What breaks the soul is its abuse. People stab without fear because they trust the cushion of your pardon. They trample you and return with two words as if apologies were keys to erase history. And society strengthens them, turning the burden back on the wounded, demanding that forgetting should accompany forgiveness—as though memory is a switch you can flick off.

No. Real forgiveness does not dismiss accountability. It does not trivialize pain. It does not erase the lessons carved into your scars. Forgive, yes, but do not grant your silence as permission for repeated harm. Forgive, but remember what it taught you. Forgive, but guard your healing.

They say forgiveness is strength but they don’t remember to echo that sometimes that strength is not in opening your arms again, but in closing the door so the same hands can never wound you twice.

You cannot teach healing from a pain you have never carried.
You cannot demand that someone swallows silence simply because it tasted easier for you.

If quiet helps you survive, let it be yours. But if another must speak before unspoken words suffocate them, let them speak. Healing is not a uniform garment. It is a path, and each soul must walk it in the way their wounds allow.

So honor your journey, and honor the journey of others. Healing has no single script.

crom_de_pen_goddess