Why Self Forgiveness Is Hard

I Need to Admit Something...

Listen, I’m not proud of everything. Not even close. But I need to admit this: for fifteen years, I carried a secret so heavy it felt like a second spine. I never told my wife, Maria. I never told my kids. I never even told myself the full truth. And it wasn’t because I was protecting them. It was because I was protecting me from the monster I’d been. I hid the worst part of my past. The part where I almost killed a man. Over twenty dollars. For a stupid reason. And the hardest part? It wasn’t the violence. It was the fact that I still felt like that guy. Even after I walked away from the streets. Even after I got clean. Even after I became the guy who runs the youth center downtown. That’s why goodhuman:Forgiving Yourself was the hardest thing I ever tried to do.

The Lie I Carried

I was 19. Fresh out of the joint for a drive-by I didn’t even pull the trigger on, but still got the heat. My crew was low on cash, low on respect. We were hanging near the old 7-Eleven, arguing over who owed what for a bag of weed. Some dude named Rico, who owed me $20 for a stolen bike, got mouthy. Said I was "weak" for not hitting him back when he snatched my chain. I saw red. Not the red of anger—the red of the gun. I pulled it. Not to shoot him. Just to scare him. To show him I wasn’t the guy he thought I was. But my hand shook. My finger tightened. And for a second, I wanted to see him drop. I saw the fear in his eyes. The way his legs locked up. I saw my own reflection in the glass of the 7-Eleven window—that was the monster. Not the gun. The wanting.

I didn’t pull the trigger. Rico ran. I ran. But I never told anyone. Not the cops. Not my mom. Not Maria, who was still my girlfriend then, working double shifts at the diner to keep us fed. I buried it. Like I buried every other bad thing I’d done. The Weight Of Guilt I’d see a kid in the park who looked like Rico, and my chest would tighten. I’d wake up sweating, hearing the click of the gun in my head. I’d look in the mirror and see him—the guy who almost killed someone for a twenty. And I’d think: You don’t deserve to be clean. You don’t deserve Maria. You don’t deserve to be a dad.

Why It Was Hard to Face

Here’s the raw truth: I thought self-forgiveness was a luxury for people who hadn’t earned it. I thought it was for the "good" people. Not for the guy who’d held a gun to someone’s head. Not for the guy who’d sold crack to a kid his own age. I thought if I ever truly let myself feel the weight of it—really feel it—I’d drown. So I kept it locked up. I’d say "I’m sorry" to Maria when I came home late, but I’d never say what I was sorry for. I’d say "I’m sorry I messed up" instead of "I’m sorry I almost killed a man." I’d let the shame fester, because admitting it felt like admitting I was still that guy. be-vulnerable:Walls We Build

The Moment of Honesty

It wasn’t some grand epiphany. It was a Tuesday. My youngest, Sofia, was 8. She’d been asking about my "old stories" for weeks. "Daddy, why did you have a gun?" she’d ask, her voice small. I’d brush it off: "Just stuff, baby. Bad stuff." But that day, she sat on my lap after dinner, her tiny fingers tracing the scar on my knuckles from a fight I’d won (and lost) years ago. "Did you ever hurt someone, Daddy?" she asked. Not "Did you do bad things?" But "Did you hurt someone?"

I froze. The words just… came out. Not the whole story, not yet. But enough. "Yeah, baby," I said, my voice cracking. "I almost hurt someone. Really badly. For no good reason." I didn’t say why I almost killed him. I didn’t say how I felt. I just said it. And then I did the hardest thing: I looked at her. I let her see the shame in my eyes. I didn’t hide it. I didn’t say "It’s okay." I just said, "I’m sorry I almost hurt someone. I’m sorry I made you worry about that." be-vulnerable:The Courage To Be Seen

What Changed

Here’s what I learned: Self-forgiveness isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about seeing it clearly, without the shame-blinders. It’s about saying, "I was that person. I did that thing. And I’m still here. And I’m choosing to be better." It’s not a one-time thing. It’s a daily practice. Like breathing.

So I started doing it. Not with grand gestures. Just small, real things. I wrote a letter to the 19-year-old who almost killed Rico. I didn’t say "I forgive you." I said: "You were scared. You were angry. You were a kid. I see you. And I’m not that kid anymore." I read it out loud to Maria that night. Not to ask for forgiveness. Just to say, "This is what I carried." And she held me. She didn’t say "It’s okay." She said, "I’m here. We’re here."

Practical Advice (No Bullshit)

You don’t need a therapist to start. You don’t need to "get over it." You just need to stop hiding it. Here’s how I do it:

1. Name the thing you’re hiding. Not "I messed up." But what you messed up. "I was drunk and drove." "I lied to my kid." "I almost hit my wife." Be specific. The vagueness is the lie.
2. Say it out loud. To a mirror. To your dog. To a friend who won’t judge. "I was scared and I hurt someone." Say it. The shame shrinks when you say it.
3. Write it down. Not to "get it off your chest." To see it. "I was a coward. I was angry. I was wrong." Then add: "And I’m not that person anymore." That’s the key. Not "I’m perfect now." But "I’m choosing to be better."
4. Ask for help. Not to "fix" you. To see you. I go to my sponsor every week. Not to talk about the past. To say, "This is what I’m carrying today." And he says, "You’re not alone with it." That’s the only thing that matters.

You’re Not Too Far Gone

I’m not saying it’s easy. Some days, I still see that kid in the mirror. Some days, I still feel that coldness in my chest. But now I know: that coldness isn’t the monster. It’s just the memory of the monster. And I don’t have to live with it. I can choose to be the man who walks away from the alley. The man who holds his daughter’s hand at the park. The man who tells the truth.

You’ve carried your own secret. The one you think makes you unlovable. The one you think proves you’re "too far gone." I’ve been there. I am there sometimes. But I’m here. And I’m proof: you can be here too. You don’t have to be the person who did the thing. You can be the person who chooses to stop carrying it.

So start small. Name it. Say it. Write it. And then, just for today, let it go. You’re not too far gone. You’re already here. And that’s enough.

— Francisco Meyer, walking a different path

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Written by Francisco Meyer — 05:23, 02 January 2026 (CST)