It was a nice spring day here in Central Florida. The sun was shining, it hadn’t reached the point of scalding outside yet, and I had missed my friend. We had planned to get together for coffee at this cute little place in our adorable downtown spot. 

It’s one of those places that has a super trendy garage door as the side entrance, and when the weather is nice they open it so the fresh breeze drifts in. Fresh air mixed with the aroma of coffee is my jam.

We ordered our drinks and picked a table outside, and just as she sat down she looked at me with her genuinely interested expression and asked the one question I had been dreading.

 “How are you?” 

It’s a simple question, really.  But at that moment, I could feel the weight on my chest getting heavier. My skin started to heat up from the discomfort of knowing the truth and not being able to verbalize it. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. 

And suddenly,  what should have been a simple question turned into a tornado inside my mind, gathering up all of the areas I was falling short. 

The dirty laundry piling up in our rooms. The clean laundry sitting in baskets waiting to be folded.  The dishes that seem to multiply every time I blink my eyes.  The endless soccer practices that turned me into a part-time uber driver.  The “What’s for dinner?” that would inevitably greet me when I walked in the door. 

Not to mention the full-time job.  The commitments outside of the home.  And my fading spiritual life. 

Yes, I knew time spent with Jesus was and is important.  But Jesus took a back-row seat to everything else I was trying to juggle.

I didn’t have time.  

Too much pressure.  Too much responsibility.  The mental load alone was making my brain hurt and the pressure in that moment needed somewhere to go, so it built right behind my eyeballs. 

And as soon as I opened my mouth to say, “I’m fine… things have just been crazy,” the pressure finally found its escape.

I didn’t recognize it at that moment, but soon after I realized that her question wasn’t the problem. Neither was the laundry, the dishes, or the uber-mom responsibilities. The real problem was the weight that I had been pretending wasn’t there – the things buried so deep I rarely let myself acknowledge them. 

The childhood questions that I never got answers to. The moments I needed comfort but learned to be strong instead. The hurts I minimized because I don’t want to be a burden. The disappointments that I tucked away so that I can keep functioning. The forgiveness I claimed to give but never actually experienced inside. 

Naming the Weight: What Unforgiveness Feels Like

Unforgiveness doesn’t always show up as anger. Sometimes it shows up as exhaustion, irritability, or that constant feeling of being on edge – the kind of heaviness that you just can’t quite explain. 

It can feel like something is unsettled inside you.

And even when life is going smoothly and you convince yourself you’re “fine” or “over it,” all it takes is one small moment – a smell that takes you back, a tone of voice that feels too familiar, a few innocent words from a friend – and suddenly everything comes barreling back at full force.

Your skin heats up, your heart starts racing, your palms get sweaty, and your fight‑or‑flight response kicks in before you even understand why.

It’s in those moments you realize: the wound wasn’t gone. It was just quiet… until something brushed up against it.

You see… when we don’t forgive, it eventually turns into something ugly. 

Bitterness and resentment. And those things have a costly price.

The Cost We Don’t See

What I find ironic is that when we choose to hold onto unforgiveness, many times it can be an attempt to punish the person that did us wrong, whether consciously or subconsciously.

We feel a little more powerful. We feel a little more in control. We feel a little more grounded… at least for a season. But what we don’t realize is that really by holding onto unforgiveness – we are punishing ourselves way more. We are tightening the chains of being bound to anger, to anxiety, and to restlessness. 

There’s a cost… a big one. And that cost affects multiple areas of our lives. 

Emotional Cost

Unforgiveness takes an emotional toll long before we recognize it. It shows up as irritability, overwhelm, or that constant sense of being on edge. You feel like you’re carrying something heavy inside, but you can’t quite name it. Your reactions become bigger than the moment because the wound underneath is still tender. Even small things feel like too much, and you wonder why you’re so easily drained.

Relational Cost

It also affects the way we relate to others. Without meaning to, you start building walls instead of bridges. You pull back from people who care because closeness feels risky. You read too much into comments, brace for disappointment, or assume the worst before anything even happens. Relationships feel harder than they should, not because of the people in front of you, but because of the pain behind you.

Spiritual Cost

Spiritually, unforgiveness creates a quiet distance. You want to feel close to God, but your heart feels tangled and heavy. Prayer becomes harder, not because you don’t love Him, but because you’re carrying things you haven’t surrendered. You feel guilty for struggling, unsure why peace feels out of reach. It’s not that God has moved – it’s that the weight you’re holding makes it difficult to rest in Him.

Physical Cost

And then there’s the physical cost – the way your body keeps the score. Tight shoulders, a racing heart, headaches that show up during stress, trouble sleeping, or that knot in your stomach when something triggers the memory. Your body reacts before your mind even catches up, reminding you that the wound is still there, still unhealed, still affecting you in ways you didn’t realize.

When we understand how deeply unforgiveness affects us, it becomes easier to see why God invites us to release it. Not for the other person’s sake, but for our own healing.

The Act of Surrender

If you’ve read my previous blog post, When Our Wounds Speak: Naming the Grief, you know a small part of my story. It shouldn’t be a huge surprise that forgiveness was hard for me. 

Your parents are supposed to be the two people in the world that are supposed to love you most. They’re supposed to protect you, guide you, and model what it means to be whole and healthy – or at least that’s what I believed. But that wasn’t my story. 

 I spent a lot of my life angry and heartbroken. 

I spent years feeling like I wasn’t good enough, like I’d never measure up, like I was too messed up and too broken to ever be loved. Those feelings didn’t come out of nowhere. They were a direct result of the actions of someone that was supposed to protect me. There was nothing I could have done to “just not feel that way,” no matter what the intention was behind it. 

It’s been almost 21 years since my mom was taken from our family very abruptly. And I probably spent over 19 of those years carrying this anger inside of me. 

Then one day, not too terribly long after that sweet spring day when I met my friend for coffee – my life was turned upside down again. 

If you read my other blog post, you know that this was the moment I started getting help. Therapy became the path to give me the tools I needed to move past my unforgiveness. 

The Light Bulb Moment

There’s a very popular saying you hear in therapy circles: “Hurt people hurt people.” I never understood this. How could you possibly do things that hurt people that you claim to love? 

But the truth is… it happens more easily than we want to admit. 

We all carry stories from our past – stories shaped by the people who raised us, who themselves carried wounds, trauma, patterns, and pain. Whether your childhood was beautiful or filled with heartbreak, you were shaped by decisions that were made around you or about you. Those decisions have formed who you are today.

Does that excuse harmful behavior? Absolutely not.                                                  Does it give us permission to hurt people? No.                                                          But it does explain why, when life gets hard, the lies we’ve believed about ourselves rise to the surface if we’re not grounded in truth.

Through therapy and the slow building of healthier tools, I had a moment.              I was driving, spiraling into what could have easily become a relapse of old thoughts: 

I’m not good enough. I’ve made too many mistakes. I’ve failed my husband, my kids, myself. I’m too messed up… too dirty… too broken… 

And right when my pity party was about to drown out everything else, I felt God speak straight into my soul with megaphone-like clarity:

Have you made mistakes? Yes. But I don’t identify you by your failures. Have you messed up? Sure. But I don’t call you a mess. Have you been dirty? Yes. But I redeem, restore, and wash you clean. Are you broken? Maybe you were – but I am the God who puts broken pieces back together.

I still have scars. But those scars tell a story – a story of hope, healing, and redemption. They are my testimony, and I believe God has called me to share them with other women.

And then it hit me:

My earthly dad didn’t make the choices he made because something was wrong with me. He made those choices because something was broken inside of him.

My feeling unloved wasn’t because I was unlovable. It was because he was hurting – and hurting people hurt people.

And no matter how many people you’ve hurt… no matter what choices you’ve made… it is never too late to call out to Jesus. Never too late to repent. Never too late to be forgiven.

When I share these pieces of my story, it is never to dishonor him. He is still my dad. I still love him. I still pray for him. I believe I will see my dad in heaven. I’ve had dreams of it – of him whole, restored, standing with my mom. I’m believing God for his complete redemption.

Forgiveness didn’t happen for me in one moment. It wasn’t a single prayer or a single breakthrough. It was a slow, steady surrender – choosing, again and again, to let God speak louder than the lies I had carried for years.

And that’s where I want to leave you today: not with all the answers, not with a perfectly tied‑up story, but with the reminder that healing is a journey. And you don’t have to take the next step alone. 

Because the truth is, forgiveness isn’t about pretending the past didn’t hurt. It’s not about minimizing the damage or excusing what was done. It’s about releasing the grip those wounds have had on your heart. It’s about letting God step into the places you’ve been holding together on your own strength. It’s about trusting that He can carry what you were never meant to shoulder.

So before we go any deeper – before we talk about boundaries, reconciliation, or the layers of healing that come next – I want to pause here. Right at the moment of surrender. Right at the place where God begins to rewrite the story.

This is where forgiveness starts. This is where freedom begins. And this is where we’ll pick up next time.

Scripture to Hold Onto

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”   Psalm 34:18

A Journaling Prompt to Take With You

What lies have you believed about yourself because of someone else’s actions?What does God say is true about you instead?