Forgiveness is not the absence of hurt. It is the quiet courage to release it.
I was just talking to my parents about Jainism. I told them that though I abhor the hypocrisy that often surrounds religious practice, I do not dislike the faith itself. The food restrictions are tough to follow, yes, but I have always loved its principles:
the simplicity of Aparigraha (non-attachment),
the compassion of Kshama (forgiveness),
and the quiet logic of the theory of Karma, the idea that every thought, word, and deed ties a subtle knot around the soul.
Over time, these knots weigh us down, and the only way to untie them is through awareness, compassion, and restraint.
Among all Jain principles, Ahimsa or non-violence is the most profound. But it goes beyond abstaining from physical harm. True Ahimsa includes our words and thoughts. To hurt another being through anger, jealousy, or resentment is to create ripples of violence within ourselves.
And yet, we are human. The mind is like a river. Thoughts will arise, swirl, and settle. The presence of a harsh or vengeful thought is not a moral failure. What matters is what we do with it. When we notice anger, when we feel the sting of injustice and still choose not to act on it, we are practicing spiritual discipline in action.
Even Jainism acknowledges this gradual inner work. Through the Gunasthanas or stages of spiritual development, one slowly purifies passions and attachments. Until liberation, moments of hurt or resentment will flicker. The practice is not to suppress them, but to witness them and let them dissolve.
I remind myself of this often. Because despite believing deeply in forgiveness, I am not immune to hurt.
Over the years, I have forgiven people, sometimes for wounds that cut deep. Often, I do not even remember the wrong later. It is as if life quietly dusts off the pain and moves on.
But sometimes, something stirs inside. A part of me wants life to be tit for tat, for karma to arrive right on schedule. When someone who hurt you seems to thrive instead of face consequences, it can feel unfair. You do not want revenge, but you do crave balance. And in those moments, forgiveness feels naïve.
Then, after wrestling with that helplessness, something softer emerges. You remember your philosophy, to forgive, to forget, to free yourself from the cycle of hurt. And you breathe again.
No, I am not a bad person for feeling that way. None of us are.
Because spiritual growth is not about never feeling anger. It is about not becoming it. It is about noticing the storm and still choosing calm. Every time you forgive when you could have cursed, every time you let go when you could have clung to bitterness, you rise a little higher on that invisible ladder of peace.
Maybe forgiveness is not a one-time act after all. Maybe it is a quiet, lifelong practice of remembering who we want to be, even when the world forgets.
