The Weight of Unspoken Apologies

You used to say God could forgive anything.

You said it with that cold assurance that kinda made mercy sound like a punishment. It was confusing (and painful- physically and emotionally) being a child under your authority.

You mainly and heavily quoted scripture with that sharp tone … the one that made even softness feel like sin. You spoke as if forgiveness were a formula you’d mastered, as if reciting verses could erase everything ugly you ever did.

But here’s what I’ve come to learn… God, if He exists or not (and honestly, I’m on the fence. Maybe I’m a lukewarm bitch, the kind the Bible warns about, the kind He spits out of His mouth) …God can’t forgive what you refuse to name.

He can’t reach into the silence of your denial and pull out a confession that was never there.

Forgiveness isn’t automatic. It isn’t some spiritual coupon you clip and cash in at the end of your life. It’s a bridge built with honesty … and you never picked up a single stone to build that bridge. You picked up plenty of stones, though. You picked them up and threw them, over and over, until the people around you stopped trying to come near.

You’ve always believed your prayers were enough.

You think raising your arms and swaying in church makes you righteous, even when the same hands once struck fear into others at home.

You stop in your tracks like a Pharisee, tilt your head toward the ceiling, and shout a prayer after using God’s name as a curse.

(Also, saying His name in vain is much more than just using it as a swear word but that’s a whole other conversation/topic …one we’ll never get to have.)

You think if you speak His name loud enough, He’ll overlook the harm you caused. You think if your church acquaintances see you cry during a powerful song, that counts as purity.

But you use religion like a shield … not to protect others, but to protect yourself from accountability. Every verse you quote is a weapon. Every “bless your heart” is a blade slipped between the ribs. Every Christian song you hum after the damage is done is mockery disguised as faith.

You wear holiness like perfume … it’s sweet and suffocating … so no one can smell the rot beneath. You think kindness can be performed. You think a few presents on Christmas (presents that scream “I don’t know my grandchildren”), and Sunday smiles can erase the bruises your words left on our souls. You want to be seen as the matriarch who held and holds the family together, when in truth, you’re the reason we all scattered like startled birds. Your “girls” who you testify to in prison, will never know the true you we were forced beneath and then cast away from. They aren’t yours. They are Gods. And their own people.

But God sees it all. He sees the pride that’s grown inside you like a tumor, the satisfaction you take in being “right,” even when you’re cruel. You’ve hidden behind your righteousness so long you’ve started believing it’s real. You call it “faith,” but it’s really just fear dressed in scripture … fear of being wrong, fear of being small, fear of being unloved.

If you can’t admit you’ve hurt someone, you’re not sorry … you’re just proud. You’re just hoping time will rewrite the story in your favor. You used to say, God knows the heart. You were right about that. He knows when tears are for reputation, not redemption. He knows when repentance is a costume you only wear in public, when prayer is just a performance for whoever’s watching.

You told me once that forgiveness makes us holy. But holiness isn’t in the pretending … it’s in the trembling. It’s in the person who stands in the wreckage and whispers, “alright, I admit it, I did this.”

You’ve never whispered that, Grandma. You’ve never even looked at the wreckage. You’ve built a church out of denial and called it faith. You baptized yourself in self-righteousness and mistook that for salvation.

You love control more than connection. You love image more than intimacy. And yet, I think some part of you aches to be known … to be loved without the armor. But you never allow it. You never let love get close enough to see the truth. Every time someone tries to reach you, you hand them a Bible verse instead of your heart.

And that’s what breaks me. You’re still here. You’re still alive. You still have the chance to change … to look around at the years of distance you’ve created and finally see it. But you won’t. You won’t because it’s safer to believe you’ve done nothing wrong than to admit the damage you’ve caused. You’d rather live a lie than face the mirror.

I think that’s why you’re so lonely. Not because God’s abandoned you, but because you’ve abandoned the truth. You could still be free. You could still be forgiven. But forgiveness requires surrender, and you’ve never once laid down your pride. You guard it like treasure, even though it leaves you starving.

You don’t know what it’s like to love and be loved fully by your family. You only know how to perform it. You posture, you pose, you pray aloud. You pretend you’re closer than you are to those you barely speak to. You rewrite history in your own head, convinced that we all still orbit you, when really, we’re galaxies away. And it’s an illness you refuse to acknowledge … not of the body, but of the spirit.

I wonder if you ever feel the weight of it, the silence, the distance, the slow unraveling of everyone who once tried to love you. Do you ever lie awake and feel the ghosts of all the apologies you never gave? Do you ever think of the children who stopped calling, or the ones who learned to speak softly just to survive your storms?

Maybe deep down, you know. Maybe the loneliness is the proof … the way your voice trembles when you pray, the way you fill your own house with noise because silence tells the truth too loudly. Even your new neighbors get annoyed and go straight to your daughters with their worries, concerns and ability to vent about you… Maybe you think if you can play your bible videos loud enough… your guilt, God will forget.

But that’s not how forgiveness works. Forgiveness doesn’t arrive through denial… it blooms through humility. It’s not earned through tears that fall for your own image, but through courage that admits your cruelty.

You could still be forgiven, Grandma. You could look me in the eye along with everyone else you’ve hurt here in this city… even once … and say, I hurt you, and I wish I hadn’t. I would forgive you. I really would. I would let the walls crumble. I would let the years soften. I would let love rebuild what fear destroyed. And I believe many others would too.

But you don’t. You won’t. You keep clutching your pride like a rosary, counting the beads of your own self-importance, whispering prayers to a God you refuse to let see you as you truly are.

And I suppose that’s the saddest part. God doesn’t forgive the mask. He forgives the trembling soul brave enough to take it off. But you never let Him see yours. You stay hidden behind the scripture, behind the performance, behind the power that means more to you than peace.

Maybe one day you’ll understand. Maybe one day you’ll finally look around and see that your family isn’t full of rebellious hearts or ungrateful children … we’re just survivors of a love that demanded silence. We’re not lost… we just learned that proximity to you hurts too much.

And still, even now, I hope for you. I hope you can put the stones down. I hope you can unclench your jaw long enough to whisper the words that would free us all… … … “I’m sorry.”

Because you’re still here, Grandma. There’s still time. You can still choose truth over pride, tenderness over power, love over the illusion of being right.

And if you ever do … if you ever look me in the eye with trembling honesty … I promise I’ll be there, on the other side of that bridge, waiting.

Because despite everything, I still wish you’d find peace. I still wish you’d find love. I still wish you’d build that bridge, instead of throwing stones across it.

I repeat out of urgency and hope… God cannot truly forgive what you cannot name. You cannot be absolved of a wound you will not acknowledge, nor can you expect grace to seep into the cracks of a heart sealed shut with pride.

Forgiveness is not a magic trick… it’s a dialogue, a reckoning, an admission that something sacred was broken. When you hurt others and refuse to see it, you don’t only rob them of healing… you rob yourself of redemption. If you cannot look someone in the eyes and say, “I’m sorry,” then what you really mean is, “I value my pride more than your pain.”

And God sees that. He sees the hardness beneath your voice, the quiet calculation that lets you justify what you’ve done. He knows when your confessions are hollow, when your prayers are merely habit and not transformation…. You may think your silence protects you, that avoidance keeps you safe, but God does not dwell in silence. He dwells in truth. And truth cannot live where denial reigns.

You’re still alive, Grandma. You’re still here. That’s what makes this ache so sharp and this hope so persistent. It’s not too late for you to unlearn what hurt you… and what you’ve passed on. The years may have wrinkled your hands, but your heart is still capable of softening. You could still choose to be free.

I think of all the ways I’ve spent my life trying to undo the example you set. I’ve learned that strength isn’t the absence of apology… it’s the courage to make one. I’ve learned that control isn’t love, and silence isn’t peace. I’ve learned that being right is hollow when it costs you connection. In spite of your choices, I’ve chosen a different kind of inheritance.

I’ve chosen to apologize more than I try to be right. I’ve chosen to be accountable, to let my voice tremble, to say the words I once thought would kill me… “I’m sorry. I was wrong.” I’ve built my relationships on the soil of your mistakes, and instead of bitterness, I’ve grown something living there.

For years, I thought becoming strong meant becoming impenetrable. But the truth is, every time I softened… every time I admitted my faults… I found a piece of myself worth saving. I let people go when they needed to go. I stopped begging love to stay where it didn’t want to grow. And in the wreckage of all that release, I found something radiant.

I became the mother I always needed.

I became the spouse I always wanted to be.

I became a version of myself who can look in the mirror without flinching.

My relationships… my marriage of nearly three years to a man I’ve known for over a decade, my father, my sister, my twin brother, my stepkids, my cousin, my friends… have all deepened because of this. Not because we are flawless, but because we refuse to hide behind our flaws. Because humility, vulnerability, honesty, genuine apologies, and forgiveness have become the lifeblood of our love.

That’s what keeps a relationship alive… not perfection, not performance, but truth spoken aloud, even when it shakes your voice to do so. Humility. Honesty. Vulnerability. The willingness to kneel in the dirt of your own wrongdoing and grow something holy from it.

I’m not perfect, Grandma. I have my moments when my pride burns too bright. There are times I don’t apologize right away. But I come around. Maybe not the day of, maybe not even the week of, but I come around. I sit with my discomfort until it teaches me something. I turn it over in my palms like a stone I’m trying to understand. That doesn’t make me a saint or a sinner… it makes me a human being who wants to do better.

That’s all your family wants from you. Not perfection. Not even reconciliation… just truth. Just the willingness to face yourself and admit what you’ve done, what you remember, what you’ve denied. You’re too old to still be hiding behind pride. You’re too sacred a soul to die without release.

It’s never too late… except … when you’re in the ground. And that’s what we fear most. Not your death exactly, but the silence and pain it will seal. Because once you’re gone, we’ll be left holding every unspoken word, every apology that never found breath. We’ll carry the weight of what could’ve been if you had just let go of being right long enough to be real.

We don’t need your apology to be whole, but you need it to be free. You need it for your own salvation… not just the kind promised by scripture, but the kind that comes from being seen and forgiven by those who loved you in spite of everything. God does not demand perfection. He demands truth. And truth, Grandma, begins with the words you’ve spent a lifetime avoiding… “I’m sorry.”

Because until you can say that… not just to Him, but to us… you’ll never truly feel the forgiveness you keep praying for.