Dear younger me,
You’re kneeling in the dust of Kandahar, blood on your hands and a grenade in your chest—your grenade, the one you carried because you thought it made you strong. You think forgiveness is weakness. You think it means saying "I forgive you" to the guy who shot your buddy, or to yourself for not saving him. You’re wrong.
Here’s what works: Forgiveness isn’t for them. It’s for you. It’s the moment you stop letting their pain live in your bones. I know you’re tired. You think holding onto anger is courage. It’s not. It’s just another wound you’re stitching onto yourself. I’ve seen the worst—soldiers who drowned in rage, never letting go of the hurt. They never healed.
You made the mistake of believing forgiveness meant forgetting. It doesn’t. It means acknowledging the scar without letting it bleed. When you refused to forgive the medic who failed to save your friend, you were only hurting yourself. You were the one who couldn’t breathe.
So here’s what I need you to hear: Courage isn’t what you think. It’s the quiet act of putting down the grenade. It’s looking at your own pain and saying, "I see you. But I won’t let you own me." Start small. Forgive the part of you that stayed angry. Forgive the part that thought it was your fault. Do it for the woman who’ll sit across from a firefighter in my office, tears streaming, whispering, "I can’t let go."
You don’t have to be unbreakable. You just have to be willing to mend. The day you forgive yourself for surviving—that’s when you finally start living.
I’ve seen people survive the worst. You will too.
— Lois Brown, still serving