Haritha
“Just let it go.” How many times have I heard that? Society repeats it like a prayer, a prescription for peace. But what if I don’t want to let it go? What if, instead, I want to hold on to my anger, my indignation, my pain? What if forgiveness, so often lauded as the higher road, feels like a betrayal of myself?Forgiveness is heralded as a virtue, especially for women. We’re told that letting go is the key to freedom, the way to move on. We’re expected to be the peacekeepers, the ones who absorb the blows and still offer a smile. But there’s a cost to this constant pressure to forgive, to be the bigger person. It’s a cost I’ve been paying for far too long.
I grapple with this conflict, burdened by the weight of anger and indignation that society insists I should release. Each time I’m wronged, each time my boundaries are crossed, I’m urged to forgive. “Let it go,” they say. “You’ll feel better once you do.” But what if I don’t? What if letting go isn’t a release, but a suppression? The more I’m told to forgive, the more I feel my true emotions being pushed down, compacted into a small, tight space within me where they fester.
I’m tired of being told to let go, tired of the expectation that I must swallow my hurt and pretend it doesn’t matter. Anger is a natural response to being wronged, yet we’re conditioned to suppress it, to push it down until it becomes a dull ache we barely recognize. In doing so, we diminish ourselves. We become smaller, less authentic versions of who we are. The anger doesn’t go away; it festers, turning inward until it manifests as self-doubt, anxiety, or even depression.
Forgiveness, as it is often demanded, can feel like a form of erasure. It’s as if the world expects us to wipe away the wrongs done to us, to pretend they never happened, or worse, that they didn’t matter. But they did happen, and they do matter. My anger matters. My hurt matters. Every time I force myself to forgive when I’m not ready, I’m denying a part of myself. I’m telling myself that my feelings aren’t valid, that they’re something to be ashamed of or hidden away. This, more than anything, makes me feel small. It makes me feel inauthentic, as though I’m playing a role that’s been assigned to me rather than living my truth.
Forgiveness, I’ve come to realize, isn’t always the noble path it’s made out to be. Sometimes, it’s a cop-out, a way to avoid confronting the very real pain we’re feeling. It’s easier to say “I forgive you” than to dive into the messy, uncomfortable process of acknowledging our hurt, our anger, and the injustice we’ve endured. But in skipping that process, we deny ourselves the right to fully experience our emotions.
There’s something empowering about rage, about allowing myself to feel the full force of my anger without immediately seeking to dissipate it. Anger can be a catalyst for change; it can drive us to set boundaries, to demand respect, to insist on better treatment. When we’re quick to forgive, we often bypass these critical steps, letting those who wronged us off the hook without truly holding them accountable.
I’m learning that there’s a place for forgiveness, but it has to be on my terms. It’s not something I should feel pressured into before I’ve had a chance to process what I’m feeling. Sometimes, I just need to sit with my anger, to let it be there until I’m ready to let it go. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s a part of being true to myself.
Letting go isn’t always the answer I’m looking for. Sometimes, the strength I need lies in holding on to my feelings until I’m truly ready to release them. It’s not about being noble or doing what’s expected; it’s about being honest with myself. And that, I’m starting to believe, is where my real power lies.
This work was written during the Ochre Sky Memoir writing workshop facilitated by Natasha Badhwar and Raju Tai.
