Letters people chose to share.

Eleven people. One screenshot. I'm not naming you. Ubuntu says a person is a person through other persons. You diminished me, and you also diminished yourselves. I forgive what you did to me. I do not forgive what you did to the chat. That is for the chat to repair, not me.

You preached the sermon that told me my marriage failure was my fault. I left the church. I did not leave God. I forgive you for the sermon. I do not return to the pew. Worthington's H — Hold — applies. I have held this for eleven years. Today I lay it down.

I do not name you. I do not owe you a name. What you did was wrong. I write this so that the bus stops being yours and starts being mine again. I take back the No. 14. I take back the seat at the back. I take back the way home.

Three months. You are doing the hard thing. I forgive every relapse it took to get here, and I forgive in advance the ones that may still come. The fellowship calls this 'progress not perfection.' Welcome back.

I left. HR processed the complaint. The settlement was small. I forgive the small settlement. I do not forgive the HR director. Tikkun — the broken piece is the institution. I repair what I can reach by telling the next woman the truth before she takes the role.

You worked the night shift at the 7-Eleven for nineteen years. I went to law school. I never thanked you out loud. I am thanking you now into this letter and into the cheque I am putting in the mail. Both count. Sumud — steadfastness. You were rooted so I could grow.

Three girls testified. I was one. You were sentenced. I forgive only what I am required to forgive in order to walk into the gym again with my daughter. That is the floor. There is no ceiling required. Hilchot Teshuvah is clear — the wronged need not pardon the unrepentant. I have not pardoned. I have walked into the gym.

I forgive you for getting sick. I forgive myself for blaming you. The scar runs from sternum to armpit. I have stopped covering it in summer. Metta — may this body be safe. May it be happy. May it be healthy where it can be. May it live with ease in the parts that still work, which are most of them.

I lost you in elementary school when the teachers said only English. I am thirty-six and I am taking the class on Wednesdays. Perdóname. I forgive my younger self for assimilating. I forgive the teachers for not knowing better. Mostly I forgive the country that asked it. I am rebuilding.

Beirut, I left in 2013. I have not been back. The airport is open. I am not. Sumud — rootedness — is not always about staying in the soil. Sometimes it is carrying the soil. I carry it. The recipes, the dialect, the song my grandmother sang. The city is in me whether I return or not.

We have not spoken in four years. I am writing this not to send. Worthington's E — Empathize — is the step I keep failing. So I tried it differently. I imagined the apartment in 1982 when you were twenty-six and the man you married was not the man you thought. I do not excuse what came after. I empathize with the girl who could not see it yet. I forgive her. I am not ready to forgive you.

You lost three friends and gained twelve. The math was always on your side. It did not feel like it for the first six months. I forgive the six months. Worthington's H — Hold. I have held the freedom for eleven years now. It is the floor I stand on.

I do not forgive on behalf of the women who came before me. I forgive on behalf of myself, on this specific Tuesday in May. Afw — wipe it clean of my own carrying. The scarf is back on. The wiping does not require you. It is mine.

You almost did not survive that night. You did. I am writing this twelve years later from a kitchen with coffee in it. The kitchen is the proof. I forgive the version of you who thought leaving was the only door. There were others. You found them. Late. But found.

I have not been since 2019. The city I knew is not the city that is there now. I forgive the grief of both. Cantonese is going. I am keeping what I can. The taro cakes at New Year. The way my mother said wai. These are mine to keep.

I made the choice. It was the right one. I forgive the years I felt I had to explain it. I do not explain it anymore. The letter is the last explanation, and it is to no one but the silence where the children would have been.

I release the bitterness I carried for years. Your leaving made room for who I am now. If we ever meet on the street I will be civil. I will not be open. Defusion lets me hold both — the openness I once had, and the closure I now keep.

You weren't naive. You were innocent. I miss you. I forgive what I had to become to keep us alive. ACT calls this defusion — I notice I'm having the thought that I should have known sooner. I'm noticing it. I'm not inside it today.

I forgive the moment. I no longer relive the accident every time I close my eyes. The Metta phrases helped — May you be safe. May you be happy. I did not feel them for two years. I said them anyway. The intention was the practice.

I release you from owing me an apology. The freedom is mine to take, not yours to give.