Forgiveness is a choice.
It’s a daily choice—a moment-by-moment decision to remind yourself, when the enemy tries to speak, that you have let go and given it to God. The Bible tells us we must forgive… so why is it so hard?
I’ve been tempted many times with unforgiveness—both in my past and even in my present. One person comes to mind who I once couldn’t even stand to hear their name. Now? I can hug them, talk with them, laugh with them like they never hurt me.
But walking that out was painful.
I had to sacrifice a lot to get there.
I sacrificed my pride.
My emotions.
My feelings.
My hopes that were shattered by them.
My pain that I kept gripping.
My control.
My image.
But most importantly—I sacrificed my grip.
You see, unforgiveness is like holding a rope. You hold on tight because you think if you let go, you’ll fall. At first, you’re dangling high above the ground. You look down and it’s terrifying. Letting go feels like it would destroy you—because it feels like giving them something back, and you can’t do that.
As days turn into months, and months into years, the fall feels higher. You look down and the chasm feels deeper. You grip tighter because holding on feels like control. The ground seems farther away. The river keeps cutting into the sandstone, and a Grand Canyon begins forming in your soul.
You fear that if you forgive, you’ll never be the same—because you’ll never have that control back. The rope will be gone. The rope begins cutting into your hands. They bleed, and despite how much it hurts, it still feels like letting go would hurt more.
Until suddenly—slowly and all at once—you realize something.
You aren’t dangling anymore.
You’re already laying on the safety net.
You already survived the fall.
And now it’s not the fall hurting you—it’s the rope.
“For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.” (Matthew 6:14)
So I ask you—where are you holding unforgiveness?
Maybe, like me, you’re gripping the rope of a friendship that ended badly. They walked away in a way that tore you apart—words that cut deep, or silence that cut even deeper—and holding onto unforgiveness feels like the only control you have left.
Or maybe you’re holding onto a family member’s words—one harsh sentence replaying over and over until the rope of unforgiveness wraps so tightly around you that you begin believing you were the problem.
Maybe you’re holding onto someone you still see all the time. They don’t even know they hurt you—while you’re dangling silently, bleeding, and they have no idea you’re there.
There are hundreds of ways this shows up. I’ve lived them.
I’m not perfect at letting go. I’m still learning how to let God tend to wounds I didn’t mean to cause—or wounds I held onto myself. But every time I’ve released it—every time—I’ve watched things change for the better.
That friend whose name once made my chest tighten? Now when we see each other, it’s as if nothing ever happened. No one would guess our past. We’ve both grown and let go of the hurt.
The friends who ended our friendship? I now pray their lives are more blessed than they can even imagine. And when I see them succeed, my heart is genuinely happy.
The family members who hurt me? I no longer blame myself or see myself as the enemy. They no longer live in my thoughts.
The person who needed to be fully cut off and distanced for my own safety? The rope is gone. The soul tie is gone. We can both walk freely away.
The weight is gone. I’m no longer clawing just to survive. Gripping ropes is no longer my survival plan.
And then there was another rope I didn’t realize I’d been holding for far too long.
The rope of forgiving myself.
There was a moment where I sat holding a replica of the dress I was injured in. I held it in my hands and felt the weight of everything attached to it—the pain, the trauma, the questions, the blame, the anger. I spoke forgiveness out loud in prayer with someone. I forgave the company. I forgave the situation. I forgave the pain it caused.
And then God asked me to do the hardest thing—something I could barely say as my voice cracked.
To forgive myself.
I forgave myself for all the ways I placed blame where it never belonged.
For carrying guilt that was never mine to hold.
For believing I should have known better.
For punishing myself for surviving.
For hurting others during my healing because I needed more than they could give.
That rope cut deeper than all the others—cutting places I didn’t even realize were holding me captive.
When I released it, something shifted. Not because the story changed—but because the weight did.
That’s when I realized: sometimes the rope you’re bleeding from isn’t tied to another person or situation. Sometimes it’s wrapped around your own heart—entangling your mind, anchoring itself deep in your soul.
If we continue holding unforgiveness in our hearts, minds, or souls—whether toward another person or ourselves—how can God place a blessing in our hands? If our hands and minds are already full, there’s no room to receive. It’s like holding a stack of plates while someone tries to hand you a cup—it just won’t work.
We can’t allow ourselves to grip the rope so tightly that we miss the blessing waiting for us.
So I ask you three things:
Who—and what—do you need to forgive?
What would 2026 look like if it was the year you let go of the rope and rested fully in the safety net of Christ?
What blessing is God trying to hand you that you haven’t been able to receive because your hands are still gripping that rope?
Right now, I cut that rope.
I release you to lay in the safety net of forgiveness.
Let it go.
Let the rope go.
It isn’t control—it’s hurt.
It isn’t helping—it’s cutting.
It isn’t holding you—it’s stopping you.
“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.” (Galatians 5:1)
A Prayer to Begin the Journey
God,
I bring You the rope I’ve been holding—
the one that’s cut into my hands and weighed down my heart.
Today, I choose forgiveness—not because it’s easy,
but because You are faithful.
Help me forgive others where it feels impossible.
Help me forgive myself where I’ve carried blame that was never mine.
Teach me to trust the safety net of Your grace.
To rest instead of resist.
To release instead of grip.
I lay down what I was never meant to carry
and receive the freedom You’ve already given me.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
