When Forgiveness Feels Like Self-Betrayal

Calling on Her

Jun 17

Key Takeaways

➤ Forgiveness is not forgetting—it’s entrusting. You’re not asked to pretend the wound didn’t happen. You’re invited to place it in the hands of the only One who can bring justice and healing. Forgiveness releases the burden of revenge and hands it over to God, who promises to deal rightly with all things in His time (Romans 12:19).

➤ You don’t need their apology to be free. Closure is not a biblical prerequisite for healing. Christ offers a peace that doesn’t depend on their repentance, their remorse, or their side of the story. You don’t have to wait for them to care before you walk in freedom.

➤ Forgiveness is an act of courage, not weakness. It doesn’t mean you’re letting them off the hook—it means you’re getting off their hook. Choosing grace is not self-betrayal; it’s sacred rebellion against bitterness. It’s how you stop being defined by what they did and start being shaped by what Christ did.

10 Years of An Unforgiving Beating Heart

I carried it for ten years. Not in my hands, but in my chest. A quiet, burning ache that beat with every breath. A resentful, unforgiving heart had thudded faithfully inside me for nearly a third of my life. Not constantly, of course, there were moments of sunshine through the clouds. But the storm always returned. It was hard to let go.

“Girl, you have to move on.” They said it with love. But they didn’t see what it cost. Because forgiveness, to me, didn’t feel like peace, it felt like waving a white flag in a war I never started. It felt like setting the table for the person who flipped it in the first place, then scrubbing the floor while they walked away in peace.

It didn’t feel holy. It felt like betrayal. Not of them, but of me.

I wanted to be good. I wanted to be like the King who forgave those who pierced Him. But deep down, something inside me whispered, “If I let go, who will protect me now?” Many called it bitterness. I called it safety. And then one day, God convicted me. He wanted me to forgive. Not forget. Not perform. Not pretend. Just… forgive.

To me, it felt like treason. Like betraying the younger version of myself still curled in the corner, whispering, “Never again.” Forgiveness didn’t feel like grace, it felt like surrendering my only weapon. And yet… God did not demand. He didn’t diminish the wound. He invited me to a place of peace. He didn’t ask me to act like it didn’t hurt. He asked to come into the ache with me, to be the one who guarded the gate, so I didn’t have to anymore.

Because here’s the quiet truth no one tells you: There’s a peculiar ache that settles in your bones when you try to forgive someone who hasn’t said sorry.
It’s like walking barefoot over glass while being told you’re on holy ground. Everyone cheers for forgiveness from the outside; quotes it, sings about it, preaches it like it’s the finish line of faith. But what do you do when forgiveness doesn’t feel like freedom, when it feels like you’re abandoning the last part of yourself that still remembers how much it hurt?

You tell yourself, “Be the bigger person,” But your soul whispers, “But they never repented.” You want to be like Jesus, but it feels off. Like maybe you’re putting down your sword too soon. Or worse… handing it back to the person who wounded you. This blog isn’t a sermon. It’s a seat next to you on the floor.

I won’t hand you platitudes dressed as wisdom. I won’t pretend forgiveness is tidy or that your pain doesn’t deserve a voice. This isn’t about cheap grace or calling trauma “growth” before the wound even scabs. This is the holy, brutal, beautiful middle. Where pain and healing wrestle. Where justice and mercy sleep back-to-back. Where grace has teeth and silence can still be sacred.

Because if you’ve ever wondered whether forgiveness makes you weak, foolish, or forgetful… you’re not wrong for wrestling. And no, you’re not alone. So breathe. And let’s talk about what it means to forgive without betraying your story. As C.S. Lewis wrote: “Everyone thinks forgiveness is a lovely idea until they have something to forgive.” He was right. But there is a way. And I’d be honored to find it with you.

What Forgiveness Is Not

Before we can begin talking about what forgiveness is, we need to start with what it emphatically is not. Otherwise, you’ll build your theology of mercy atop rubble, and call it peace. And that, dear friend, is a dangerous kind of lie.

Forgiveness is not agreement with evil. It is not a quiet nod toward sin or the polite dismissal of harm. It does not shake hands with injustice or pretend wounds never bled. To forgive is not to say, “It’s fine.” It’s to look the wound in the eye and say, “You are not the end of me.”

It is not reconciliation either. Reconciliation is a two-person dance. Forgiveness is a solo step in the right direction. You can forgive without restoring what was lost between you, because not all things this side of heaven can be restored. And that grief deserves to breathe, too.

Forgiveness is not the baptism of forgetfulness. God may cast our sins into the depths of the sea, but you are not God. You will remember. And remembering doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human. Nor is forgiveness a command to smile while your soul screams. You are not required to call something beautiful while it’s still burning.

And no, hear me now, no, forgiveness is not the abdication of justice. It is not letting someone “off the hook.” It is choosing to believe that the hook was never yours to hold in the first place. God is not unjust. He is not blind. He is not passive. Forgiveness is not a denial of judgment, it is your declaration that judgment belongs to the King, not to you. It is the surrender of vengeance to the One whose hands bear scars, not grudges.

So, if you’ve been holding back forgiveness because it felt like treason against your own story, take heart. You’re not betraying yourself by forgiving. You’re finally giving your soul room to stop keeping score. Now… shall we move on?

Okay, But Why Does It Feel Like Betrayal?

Merriam-Webster defines betrayal as “a violation of trust, confidence, or a moral standard.” And isn’t that exactly what it feels like? You were wronged. You swore to yourself it wouldn’t happen again. So, you built a moral code, your own Ten Commandments, carved in scar tissue, etched with lines like never again, not this time, and I won’t be that naive twice.

Then comes forgiveness. And somehow, you’re told to tear down the laws that kept you safe, all in the name of peace. The wrong still happened. It still mattered. But now, forgiveness demands you go against the very standard you set to survive. That’s the betrayal, isn’t it? Not for any of them, but for yourself.

Let’s be clear: God did not write that law. You did. And in fairness, you probably had to. Sometimes, the only way we know how to keep breathing is by writing rules that wall off the ache. But those rules? They don’t lead to freedom; they lead to quiet captivity.

Forgiveness is beautiful, in theory. But in real life? It can feel like madness, especially when the other person is unrepentant. When they sleep soundly while you replay the moment in a loop, ugh. Anger, in those moments, becomes more than an emotion. It becomes armor. It’s fitted, familiar, and fierce. And laying it down? It feels like losing a piece of yourself.

Let’s just say it plain: Forgiveness feels unfair. Because if you forgive, who will prove the pain was real? Who will hold the line, carry the evidence, guard the gate? We think pain is our proof. That if we stop hurting, it means the offense didn’t matter. But here’s the truth, most of us don’t want to hear:

Forgiveness doesn’t erase the wrong. It simply allows the wrong to keep writing your story.

Pain is real. Justice is holy. But beloved, so is mercy. And mercy never comes cheap. It costs you pride. It costs you control. But it may also be the door your soul needs to walk through to find peace. So, if forgiveness feels like betrayal right now, you’re not crazy. You’re just standing at the edge of something sacred, where your pain and God’s grace are about to wrestle for the pen. And only one of them will write the ending.

What Is Forgiveness?

We’ve named what forgiveness isn’t. We’ve wrestled through why it can feel like betrayal. So now, let’s unpack what is forgiveness, really?

Forgiveness is a spiritual act of fierce trust. It’s looking at God and saying, “I believe You see this. I believe You care. And I believe You are more just than I am angry. I give this to You.” Forgiveness is not the denial of pain. It’s the refusal to be owned by it. It’s the holy courage to set down the gavel and give the Judge His rightful place. You are not surrendering justice, you are transferring it. You are releasing the weight of payback into the nail-pierced hands of the only One who can carry it rightly.

That, friend, is not betrayal. That’s warfare, the kind that silences hell. Because here’s the truth: forgiveness isn’t about setting them free. It’s about untethering yourself from their sin. It’s about refusing to drag their damage into every room you enter, every relationship you form, every moment you try to breathe.

And most of all, most of all, forgiveness is Christ’s echo in your life. It’s the loudest rebellion against bitterness. It’s the quietest defiance against darkness. It’s the refusal to let evil have the last word. Lewis once wrote that “To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable, because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.” And that’s the real scandal of grace: we forgive not because they deserve it, but because He did it first for us when we did not deserve it either.

And He will defend you. Romans 12:19 reminds us, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” That’s not a throwaway verse. That’s your shield. That’s your safety net when your soul screams for justice. And in the meantime? Ephesians 4:32 is your call: “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.” You are not left unguarded. You are not asked to forget. You are simply invited to hand the keys back to the King.

Because His justice is not only fair. It’s final.

Walk Me Through The Healing Process

Is there a five-step plan to make it clean, easy, and done by Thursday? Yes—and also, no. Healing doesn’t wear a uniform. It doesn’t march in neat little rows or follow a Pinterest flowchart. It’s holy and hard and sometimes heartbreakingly slow. But if you’re looking for handholds on the climb, here are five truths that can help you walk it out:

1. Grieve What Happened

You cannot forgive what you won’t name. The first step isn’t pushing past the pain, it’s standing still long enough to look it in the eye. Call it what it was. Acknowledge the loss. Sit with the sting. Don’t rush this part. Healing begins in the light, not in the hiding. (Lewis said, “The pain now is part of the happiness then. That’s the deal.” The same is true for healing.) We are quoting a lot of Lewis, but dang he was good.

2. Invite God Into the Wound

Not just to cover it, but to cleanse it. He doesn’t come with pity; He comes with power. The same hands that bore your sin want to hold your sorrow. He is not afraid of the mess. And He doesn’t just want to heal you, He delights to. Not because you’re pitiful, but because you are His. Let Him into the rooms you’ve locked tight. He’s already there anyway. Open the door.

3. Let Forgiveness Be a Journey

Some days it’s hallelujahs. Some days it’s gritted teeth and tear-streaked prayers: “I forgive, Lord… but help my heart catch up.” That’s okay. Don’t force healing. Don’t shame your process. Just stay in step with it. It’s not a performance, it’s a pilgrimage. One honest step at a time.

4. Redirect the Replay

When the hurt creeps back in (and it will), Paul gives us the remedy:

“Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure… think about these things.” (Phil. 4:8-9)

Train your mind to bounce. Shift the channel. Not to deny the pain, but to guard your peace. You’re not pretending the offense didn’t happen; you’re refusing to let it play on loop in your spirit.

5. Release the Narrative

Stop rehearsing it. To them. To yourself. To anyone who will listen. That doesn’t mean silence your story, it means stop feeding the version of it that keeps you chained. Make peace with what happened. Make peace with what they may never understand. And then hand the final word back to God. Because He remembers. He saw it. And He will not forget you.

But here’s the thing: closure is not promised in Scripture. And more importantly? You don’t need closure from them to walk in healing.

You know, the idea that closure causes healing comes primarily from mid-20th-century psychology, especially in studies surrounding grief and trauma. It really gained traction in the ‘50s through the ‘70s, then got picked up by self-help books and movies where a final conversation, letter, or dramatic monologue tied everything up with a neat little bow. But here’s the thing: closure is not promised in Scripture. And more importantly? You don’t need closure from them to walk in healing. Don’t confuse what feels satisfying with what is necessary. Just because we want it doesn’t mean we need it. Healing is not dependent on their apology, their understanding, or your ability to script the perfect ending.

Forgiveness may never feel fair. It may never feel complete. And it almost certainly won’t feel easy. But friend, it is holy.

Not because it denies your pain, but because it refuses to let pain define you. Not because it forgets what happened, but because it remembers that God is still just, still good, and still writing your story, even the parts that feel jagged and raw. You don’t forgive because they deserve peace. You forgive because you do.

So if you’re in the messy middle—still aching, still wrestling, still whispering “Is this what Jesus meant?”—I see you. And you’re not failing. You’re healing. And the One who bore the nails knows what betrayal feels like. He’s not rushing you. He’s not scolding you. He’s just holding out His hand. You don’t need to have it all together. You just need to take the next step.

And the best part is, you don’t take it alone.

TL/DR

Forgiveness isn't letting them off the hook—it’s getting off their hook. It’s not approval, amnesia, or forced reconciliation. It’s a holy act of trust, placing justice in God’s hands and choosing to walk free, even if they never say sorry. You don’t need their apology to heal—you need Christ’s presence to carry you through. It may feel like self-betrayal at first, but it’s actually sacred protection: God guarding your heart with His peace.

Define Your Terms

(some might call this a glossary)

TL/DR—Too Long/Didn’t Read
Forgiveness – A spiritual release of resentment, entrusting justice to God rather than holding on to the right to retaliate. Not forgetting, excusing, or reconciling necessarily.
Closure – A psychological concept popularized in mid-20th century therapy, referring to emotional resolution or finality—something the Bible doesn’t guarantee as part of healing.
Bitterness – A long-held resentment that poisons the heart, often masked as “protection,” but ultimately hinders healing and spiritual growth.
Repentance – A turning away from sin with genuine sorrow, not just saying sorry but aligning one’s life back toward God.