I loved it and now plan to slow read one paragraph a day as part of my morning contemplation. Often you write what is in my heart already but this time you wrote what I most need to learn - what my heart yearns to hear (except the part where you say to name the pain feels theatrical, that’s right out of my own playbook).
Forgiveness drags itself into the room, exhausted and ready to lay down arms without fanfare. We need to hear this because it seems we expect it will be different.
Thaissa, you should be very proud of this piece. I can only imagine how difficult it was to write. Thank you for giving us this gift.
Knowing that you’re taking the time to sit with this piece slowly, paragraph by paragraph, as part of your morning—it humbles me. The image you shared of forgiveness dragging itself into the room—tired, quiet, and without a spotlight—is exactly how I’ve come to understand it too. We’re taught to expect clarity and neat conclusions, but healing almost never comes that way.
Adélia Prado, an internationally acclaimed writer and a friend I admire, once told me something that still echoes in my heart: “Each time you write the pain, the path to healing straightens just a little.”
I think this essay was my attempt to trace a line around a grief that never got to be resolved—around something I longed for deeply, but never actually held. That absence left a weight I needed to name, if only to begin releasing it.
And perhaps the very struggle to forgive is the clearest sign that our love—or our hope—had roots.
That’s such a beautiful and humbling thing to receive—thank you, truly. I think transformation often happens quietly, in the margins, without us even realizing it. We live inside the questions, inside the ache, inside the attempts to name things that once felt unspeakable. And then someone like you comes along and says, “I see it.” That kind of witnessing is a gift—one I don’t take lightly.
To be seen in a space where I’ve risked being vulnerable is no small thing. Your presence here, and the gentleness of your words, remind me that transformation isn’t just a private unfolding—it’s also relational.
Love this one. I have also been thinking about forgiveness a lot. In most cases purely to release myself of something that is keeping me closed in a way that doesn’t feel good.
One thing I’ve started noticing is that I will start telling an old story of an old wound and then interrupt myself saying “actually, I don’t need that story to be true anymore.” Which always shifts something in me. Owning that I needed it to be true is so interesting, owning that part that I played in my own pain…
That moment of interrupting the old story—what a powerful act of self-liberation. I know that feeling too: realizing I’ve outgrown a narrative I once clung to for safety or meaning. And then the humbling part—owning my role in the ache. It’s painful, but strangely expansive. Forgiveness becomes less about the other and more about reclaiming our own peace. Thank you for sharing this—truly.
What a generous and soulful thing to say. If something in the piece spoke to you that deeply, then perhaps we met in some quiet truth between the lines. I’m honored and so grateful you shared that with me.
Beautifully expressed and so so very true, I found resonance in so much you’ve elucidated so clearly, gently and powerfully. “Hope, then, is not a triumphant resolution, but that delicate invitation to revisit, through the faint stirring of perception, what seemed beyond reach.” Yes. This will stay with me for a while. 🙏thank you for sharing
Reading your response reminded me that resonance is a form of kinship. That a thought I shaped in solitude could land gently in your awareness is a quiet, sacred thing. Hope, in its most honest form, always seems to arrive like that—unexpected, and soft-spoken. Thank you for seeing it.
That means so much to me—thank you for holding my words with such tenderness. I always hope that something honest will land where it’s needed, and knowing it stayed with you feels like the deepest kind of connection.
“Naïve, resplendent belief” came from somewhere deep—maybe the part that still clings to hope, even when it feels foolish. I loved how you put it: the freedom from festering wounds. That’s the kind of quiet healing I think I was chasing on the page, without fully realizing it.
"We’re taught to believe time heals. But time alone doesn’t do much unless you’re willing to show up for the work."
This statement couldn't be truer.
There is so much truth in everything you said. Still it's probably the hardest thing to let go of something that hurt us. At least for me it is hard, we have that in common. I appreciate your explanation and reminder and I wish you the very best on this journey. I'm looking forward to you revisiting this topic in the future.
P.S. I have always loved the word "esperança" and really appreciate you pointing out its extra meaning. Makes it even more beautiful and meaningful.
Your words truly warmed my heart—thank you for taking the time to sit with what I shared and respond so generously.
Yes, letting go of what hurt us can feel like one of the hardest things we’re asked to do, especially when the pain has settled in quietly over time. It helps to know I’m not alone in that struggle.
I’m so glad the reflection on esperança resonated with you. It’s a word I return to often—not just for its meaning, but for the feeling it carries: that small stretch between waiting and trusting something good might still come.
Thank you for your kindness, your presence, and that beautiful virtual hug—I’m sending one right back your way. And yes, I have a feeling I’ll be circling back to this topic again... healing tends to come in layers.
This essay reads like a whole book.
I loved it and now plan to slow read one paragraph a day as part of my morning contemplation. Often you write what is in my heart already but this time you wrote what I most need to learn - what my heart yearns to hear (except the part where you say to name the pain feels theatrical, that’s right out of my own playbook).
Forgiveness drags itself into the room, exhausted and ready to lay down arms without fanfare. We need to hear this because it seems we expect it will be different.
Thaissa, you should be very proud of this piece. I can only imagine how difficult it was to write. Thank you for giving us this gift.
Knowing that you’re taking the time to sit with this piece slowly, paragraph by paragraph, as part of your morning—it humbles me. The image you shared of forgiveness dragging itself into the room—tired, quiet, and without a spotlight—is exactly how I’ve come to understand it too. We’re taught to expect clarity and neat conclusions, but healing almost never comes that way.
Adélia Prado, an internationally acclaimed writer and a friend I admire, once told me something that still echoes in my heart: “Each time you write the pain, the path to healing straightens just a little.”
I think this essay was my attempt to trace a line around a grief that never got to be resolved—around something I longed for deeply, but never actually held. That absence left a weight I needed to name, if only to begin releasing it.
And perhaps the very struggle to forgive is the clearest sign that our love—or our hope—had roots.
I feel like I’m watching you transform in this space, and I’m honored to bear witness. 🤍
That’s such a beautiful and humbling thing to receive—thank you, truly. I think transformation often happens quietly, in the margins, without us even realizing it. We live inside the questions, inside the ache, inside the attempts to name things that once felt unspeakable. And then someone like you comes along and says, “I see it.” That kind of witnessing is a gift—one I don’t take lightly.
To be seen in a space where I’ve risked being vulnerable is no small thing. Your presence here, and the gentleness of your words, remind me that transformation isn’t just a private unfolding—it’s also relational.
Love this one. I have also been thinking about forgiveness a lot. In most cases purely to release myself of something that is keeping me closed in a way that doesn’t feel good.
One thing I’ve started noticing is that I will start telling an old story of an old wound and then interrupt myself saying “actually, I don’t need that story to be true anymore.” Which always shifts something in me. Owning that I needed it to be true is so interesting, owning that part that I played in my own pain…
That moment of interrupting the old story—what a powerful act of self-liberation. I know that feeling too: realizing I’ve outgrown a narrative I once clung to for safety or meaning. And then the humbling part—owning my role in the ache. It’s painful, but strangely expansive. Forgiveness becomes less about the other and more about reclaiming our own peace. Thank you for sharing this—truly.
I could pick every single line as worthy of quoting. This is beautiful exquisite writing full of wisdom. Thank you for sharing this. ❤️
What a generous and soulful thing to say. If something in the piece spoke to you that deeply, then perhaps we met in some quiet truth between the lines. I’m honored and so grateful you shared that with me.
Beautifully expressed and so so very true, I found resonance in so much you’ve elucidated so clearly, gently and powerfully. “Hope, then, is not a triumphant resolution, but that delicate invitation to revisit, through the faint stirring of perception, what seemed beyond reach.” Yes. This will stay with me for a while. 🙏thank you for sharing
Reading your response reminded me that resonance is a form of kinship. That a thought I shaped in solitude could land gently in your awareness is a quiet, sacred thing. Hope, in its most honest form, always seems to arrive like that—unexpected, and soft-spoken. Thank you for seeing it.
a gorgeous, wise, and moving piece. I will keep your words with me ♡
That means so much to me—thank you for holding my words with such tenderness. I always hope that something honest will land where it’s needed, and knowing it stayed with you feels like the deepest kind of connection.
love this: "naive, resplendent belief"
the freedom from festering wounds must feel so good and it lingers throughout this 😊😇
“Naïve, resplendent belief” came from somewhere deep—maybe the part that still clings to hope, even when it feels foolish. I loved how you put it: the freedom from festering wounds. That’s the kind of quiet healing I think I was chasing on the page, without fully realizing it.
"We’re taught to believe time heals. But time alone doesn’t do much unless you’re willing to show up for the work."
This statement couldn't be truer.
There is so much truth in everything you said. Still it's probably the hardest thing to let go of something that hurt us. At least for me it is hard, we have that in common. I appreciate your explanation and reminder and I wish you the very best on this journey. I'm looking forward to you revisiting this topic in the future.
P.S. I have always loved the word "esperança" and really appreciate you pointing out its extra meaning. Makes it even more beautiful and meaningful.
Also sending you a big virtual hug! <3
Your words truly warmed my heart—thank you for taking the time to sit with what I shared and respond so generously.
Yes, letting go of what hurt us can feel like one of the hardest things we’re asked to do, especially when the pain has settled in quietly over time. It helps to know I’m not alone in that struggle.
I’m so glad the reflection on esperança resonated with you. It’s a word I return to often—not just for its meaning, but for the feeling it carries: that small stretch between waiting and trusting something good might still come.
Thank you for your kindness, your presence, and that beautiful virtual hug—I’m sending one right back your way. And yes, I have a feeling I’ll be circling back to this topic again... healing tends to come in layers.