What We Get Wrong About Forgiveness—and Why It Matters

Can You Be Forgiven Without Being Excused?

What we get wrong about redemption—and why it matters more than ever.

This one’s hard to write.

Not because I don’t know what I think, but because I know how it feels.

Because forgiveness isn’t soft. It isn’t tidy. It’s gut-wrenching. Especially when you’re staring down the kind of damage that can’t be reversed.

It’s one thing to forgive a misunderstanding.

It’s something else entirely to even consider forgiveness when the damage is permanent. When there’s no undo button. No "I'm sorry" strong enough to fix what’s been broken. When the person who did it knows exactly what they did.

And yet... here we are.

Because I keep coming back to this question:

Can someone be forgiven—fully, honestly, even fiercely—without being excused?

No Excuse. No Erasing.

Let me be clear: he doesn’t deny what happened. He doesn’t pretend it wasn’t awful. He doesn’t minimize it. And he sure as hell isn’t asking for sympathy.

He carries it. Openly. Like a scar that never fully healed—visible, humbling, and constant.

There’s no PR campaign here. No victim-blaming. No manufactured “growth” moment posted in perfect lighting with sad piano music in the background.

Just a man who knows what he did.

And is still waking up every day trying to build something good from what remains.

Not for applause

.Not for redemption points.

But because he refuses to believe that this—this failure, this harm, this moment—is all there is.

Two Truths in Tension

What he did was horrific.

And...He’s still trying to do something good. Something honest. Something that helps someone else not make the same mistake.

Both of those things are true.

Not in competition. But in tension.

And that tension is where this conversation lives—if we’re willing to sit in it.

But most of us aren’t. Because we want things to be clean. Good guys. Bad guys. Innocent victims. Irredeemable monsters. No gray space, no nuance, no discomfort.

Because once we accept that someone can do something horrible and still be human, we’re forced to ask harder questions:

• What if my idea of justice is too brittle to handle complexity?

• What if I’ve written people off too soon?

• What if redemption actually costs more than we’re willing to give?

Forgiveness Is Not a Free Pass

This isn’t about letting people off the hook.

It’s not about ignoring pain or skipping over accountability. In fact, real forgiveness can’t happen without the full weight of truth. It starts with looking the consequences dead in the eye and saying, “This happened. It mattered. And it still matters.”

What it doesn’t mean is that we stop seeing the person altogether. That we collapse their whole identity into their worst moment.

But that’s what we do, isn’t it?

We erase nuance in the name of justice.

We confuse punishment with protection. We demand shame instead of change. We say, “You're canceled,” and never ask, “What now?”

The World We Build Without Redemption

If no one is allowed to come back from failure, then what happens to the rest of us?

Because we all fail. We all break things.

Most of us just do it in ways that aren’t as public. Or permanent. Or visible.

But if there’s no path forward after the fall—if the door is locked behind our worst decisions—then we’re not building a culture of accountability. We’re building a culture of quiet collapse.

Where people stop trying to make things right because there’s no incentive to try.

Where shame becomes a life sentence.Where regret is not a teacher, but a prison.

That’s not safety.

That’s emotional solitary confinement.

And it doesn’t just hurt the people we’ve labeled unforgivable—it hurts us, too.

Because the moment you mess up? You’re next.

So What Does Forgiveness Actually Look Like?

Forgiveness, the kind I’m talking about, is not weakness.

It’s not blind optimism.

It’s not forgetfulness.

It’s an act of radical vision.

It’s saying: “You are more than what you did—and I refuse to let hate or fear or trauma make me forget that.”

It’s choosing to see the person behind the action, without erasing the impact of the action itself.

It’s harder than punishment. And it costs more than silence. But it’s the only way anything really changes.

The Research Side (Because This Isn’t Just Personal)

A 2022 study in the Journal of Offender Rehabilitation found that incarcerated individuals who engaged in restorative justice programs—ones focused on accountability and future repair—had significantly lower rates of recidivism and significantly higher rates of psychological healing. That’s not just a win for the person who committed the harm. That’s a win for the victims. For families. For communities.

Forgiveness, when coupled with truth and responsibility, is not just healing. It’s preventative.

It breaks cycles.

It gives people something to grow into, not just something to pay for.

The Lifeline

This story—the one I’m telling here, and the one behind this blog—is about holding space for people who are still becoming.

It’s about leaving the light on. Not because everyone deserves a second chance on demand. But because somebody out there is sitting in silence, wondering if it’s even possible.

And the answer is: Maybe. But only if we allow it.

Forgiveness isn’t owed. But it is possible.

Redemption isn’t guaranteed. But it is real.

Excusing? No. Erasing? Never.

But giving up on people completely? That’s not justice. That’s just despair.

What Now?

I don’t know where this post lands for you. Maybe it’s comforting. Maybe it’s infuriating. Maybe it hits too close.

But I want to leave you with this:

What if we stopped asking, “Is he worthy of forgiveness? ”And started asking, “What kind of world do we create when we make forgiveness impossible?”

Because someone, somewhere, is watching how we treat people who fail. And they’re deciding what to do next with their own guilt. Their own shame. Their own mistake.

Be the lifeline. Or be the lock. But don’t pretend both are the same.