Forgiving Past Mistakes

Template:Blog post What Forgiving Past Mistakes Really Costs

Here’s the thing nobody wants to say out loud: forgiving yourself (or someone else) for a stupid, painful mistake doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like trading a heavy coat for a light one… and realizing you’re now standing naked in the rain.

I spent years clutching my anger like a security blanket. That time I yelled at the barista for burning my coffee? I’d replay it, furious at myself, convinced it proved I was a monster. Holding onto that rage felt like keeping a door locked—safely, uselessly. Then I tried forgiveness.

What I gained? Peace. Not the big kind, but the quiet kind. The kind where I don’t wake up at 3 a.m. replaying that barista incident. I stopped seeing myself as the villain in my own story. I could finally look at my own messes without flinching.

But here’s the cost: I gave up the right to be angry. Not forever—just for a while. I had to let go of the satisfaction of stewing in my own misery. I had to stop using my past mistakes as an excuse for every bad decision I made after them. That armor of resentment? It was heavy, but it was mine. Letting it go meant admitting I’d been using it to avoid growing.

And the hardest part? Forgiving someone else meant I had to accept they’d never change. I had to stop waiting for an apology that would never come. I gave up the fantasy of a clean slate.

Was it worth it? Yes. But not because it made everything easy. It made me present. Now, when I mess up (and I still do—hello, burnt coffee), I don’t spiral. I just… fix it. Or apologize. Or laugh at myself. The cost was my old, familiar pain. The gain? The space to live in the now, not the past.

Anyway, that’s my trauma response: I’d rather laugh at the mess than drown in it. And honestly? The mess is way funnier when you’re not carrying it like a backpack.

— Sheila Bishop, laughing so I don't cry

— Francisco Meyer, still earning the second chance