I have always found it baffling to hear people say they have forgiven someone for something big.

How do you forgive someone who committed childhood sexual abuse?

Physical abuse?

Emotional manipulation?

 How do you forgive when the pain didn’t just mark a moment in time but shaped your entire being?

What my dad did—and how my childhood unfolded—is woven into every fiber of who I am. It’s the way I see the world. It’s the way my brain is wired. It’s the way my trauma response still kicks in when I least expect it.

How do you forgive something that big?

Something so defining?

For years, I didn’t think it was possible.

I didn’t want it to be possible.

I have felt the weight of injustice—the gut-wrenching reality that my dad has never truly paid for what he did. He stole my childhood. He stole my innocence. He walked away from it, while I have spent the last 20 years in therapy, seeking Jesus, trying to heal, and estranged from my dad. Working hard to rewire my brain, to calm my flight or fight response, to regulate my own emotions so that I can be a good mom and wife.

It has been a battle.

Some days, I still wonder: Where is the justice?

Why does it feel like I carry all the pain while he carries nothing?

But the more I turn to Jesus, the more I start to see how letting go of that anger doesn’t mean there is no justice—it means I’m finally letting God hold it for me.

I’m definitely not there yet.

Forgiveness isn’t something I can just force myself into, nor do I think God expects me to rush past the weight of what happened. But I am starting to let go of some of the anger. Not because my father deserves it. Not because what he did was small. But because I don’t want to carry the burden of his sins any longer.

My dad was a pawn for Satan. He allowed evil to use him.

But that does not mean I have to let his choices define me forever.

Jesus Knew the Pain of Betrayal and Injustice

When Herod ordered John the Baptist’s execution, he caused Jesus deep grief. John wasn’t just a prophet or a preacher—he was Jesus’ cousin, His forerunner, His friend. When Jesus heard the news of John’s brutal death, He withdrew in sorrow (Matthew 14:13).

Herod’s actions hurt Jesus profoundly.

And yet, when Jesus later stood before Herod, He did not lash out. He did not seek revenge. He did not even speak.

Jesus stood in silence, knowing that true justice belongs to God alone.

"It is mine to avenge; I will repay," says the Lord. (Romans 12:19)

I don’t have to carry the weight of justice. That belongs to God.

I’m not at the finish line of forgiveness.

Some days, I don’t even feel close. 

But I do know this: the more I let go of the anger, the freer I become.

Not for him—but for me.

I have spent 20 years fighting for healing. 20 years learning that I am more than what happened to me. 20 years unraveling the lies that Satan has told me. 20 years discovering that Jesus has been with me every step of the way, guiding me toward a life that my father’s sin does not get to control.

I am still healing.

But for the first time, I can see that healing might one day include freedom from the weight of unforgiveness.

Not because he deserves it, but because I do.

What do you need to let go of?

What do you need to lay at the feet of Jesus today?

Prayer

Father, I lift up every person who reads these words and feels the weight of their own story pressing against their heart. For those who have endured pain, abuse, and injustice that has shaped their lives, I pray for Your peace. I pray for Your healing. I pray for the courage to keep walking forward, even when the past feels inescapable.

Lord, You see every tear they have cried, every night they have spent wrestling with anger, grief, and loss. You see the wounds that no one else can see, the ones buried deep within. And You care.

God, I ask that You begin a work of healing in their hearts. Help them to see that what was done to them does not define them. That they are not the sins of their abuser. That they are not beyond restoration. That they are not too broken for You to make whole.

Lord, I know forgiveness feels impossible for many reading this right now. And that’s okay. You don’t rush us, and You don’t demand what we cannot yet give. But You do invite us into freedom. Help them to take one small step today—whether it’s releasing just a piece of their anger, surrendering their need for justice into Your hands, or simply believing that healing is possible.

Jesus, remind them that You, too, know betrayal. You, too, know deep loss and grief. You stood silent before the one who caused You pain because You knew that true justice would come from the Father. Help them to trust that justice will come for them, too. That You have not forgotten. That You will make all things right.

And in the meantime, Lord, wrap them in Your love. Let them feel Your presence in the places where pain once lived. Let them know that they are more than what has been done to them. They are Yours.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.