When Forgiveness Feels Impossible

When Forgiveness Feels Impossible We met some old friends for dinner tonight. It was a warm gathering—familiar faces, shared stories, memories revisited. Somewhere in our conversation, the topic shifted to forgiveness. It’s a word that means different things to different people. Some find healing in it. Others find struggle. I find both. Sana was a forgiver. Even in her final days, when life had stripped her bare, she somehow held on to grace. There were people—some family, some who once called themselves friends—who hurt her deeply during her time in New York. Their absence, their indifference, their silence, and sometimes their judgment contributed, I believe, to the decline of her mental health. She felt betrayed by those she trusted most. And she carried that weight quietly. As her mother, I saw it—even when she tried to protect me from it. How do I forgive that? I’ve always considered myself a balanced, empathetic person. But when it comes to your own child’s pain, reason and rationale fall away. The protective instinct becomes a tidal wave. If someone causes anguish to your child—especially a child like Sana, so tender-hearted, so sensitive—you can’t just "let go" and move on. Sana felt things deeply. Indifference wasn’t neutral to her—it wounded her. A lack of response could feel like abandonment. She tried so hard to be strong, to believe in people, to hold on to hope. But when those she counted on turned away, something inside her broke. Mental health is still so misunderstood. Too many people see it as weakness. They expect a brave face, and when you can’t wear one, they quietly step back. That’s what happened to Sana. And yet, somehow, in her final days, she forgave. That was who she was—pure-hearted, luminous even in her suffering. But I’m not there yet. Grief has changed me. It’s made me quieter. More guarded. I find myself caring less—not in a cold way, but in a deeply tired way. Tired of pretending that all wounds heal with time. Tired of the platitudes. Tired of being told that letting go is the path to peace. We always hear these mantras: “Let go,” “Give people the benefit of the doubt,” “Expect nothing.” My father lived by these beliefs, and I respected that. But today, none of those principles offer comfort. Not when I think of the anguish Sana endured. Not when I remember how she felt, how she cried, how she tried to understand why people could be so cruel or so careless. And to think that family and friends—the very people meant to be her safe space—could inflict such hurt... That truth is hard to swallow. Forgiveness, I know, is supposed to be a noble path. But I am still in the thick of sorrow. I haven’t found my way to grace, at least not yet. Maybe one day I will. Maybe, like Sana, I’ll find light in the dark. But for now, I protect her memory with the fierceness of a mother’s love. And if holding people accountable in my heart is the only way I can stand up for her now, then perhaps that, too, is an act of love.