How to Forgive Deep Wounds: My Story, Your Story, and the Freedom Jesus Offers

I’ve been deeply hurt, and I’ve done some hurting too. This is the forgiveness work that changed me—and the healing prayer that might change you.

If you’ve ever read any of my stories, and if you’re anything like me, you may notice a thread woven through nearly all of them: someone hurt me. I don’t say that dramatically or with a violin playing in the background—I say it as a simple observation about the shape of my life. Sometimes I’ve wondered if being hurt by others is one of my central themes, one of the repeating motifs in the soundtrack of my story. Maybe that’s true for most people, but for me it has felt especially pointed at times, as if I’ve been a target for disappointments, betrayals, misunderstandings, and the quiet slow burns of relational pain.

But I want to make something clear before you imagine I’m sitting somewhere stewing. I’ve hurt people too. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve said things I wish I could swallow back whole. I’ve acted out of fear, insecurity, shame, overwhelm. I’ve wounded myself and I’ve wounded others. The difference is that I have never, to my memory, set out to hurt anyone on purpose. Any hurt I’ve caused has been accidental, born from my humanness, not my malice. And every time I’ve hurt someone, I’ve felt it—like a bruise that blooms inward.

But I can imagine the comment section in someone’s mind: Girl, you sound bitter. You’re holding onto all that. You need to forgive some people.

And to that imaginary chorus, I’d say this: I am no longer bitter. Truly. I have been bitter—achingly, justifiably bitter—many times. Bitterness is often part of the grieving process, the mourning of what should have been but wasn’t. Bitterness can be the body’s way of saying, That was not okay. But it’s not where I live anymore.

I’m not holding onto these stories because I refuse to heal. I’m holding them because they are part of the fabric of who I am. In some ways, they’re not stories I hold—they’re stories that hold me. They live in me, and whether I wrote them down or not, they have shaped me into the woman who is still here, still tender, still hoping, still reaching for God.

These stories poured out of me in a matter of weeks. They didn’t come because I refused to move on; they came because I finally had. I finally felt safe enough, steady enough, grounded enough in God’s love to tell the truth without collapsing under the weight of it.

And yet, I need to say the thing that often remains unsaid: each story I tell is only my side. In every conflict, in every wound, there is my perspective, their perspective, and then the full truth known only to God. The people who hurt me have their own histories and heartbreaks, their own blind spots and burdens. They are human—deeply, fully human—just like me. God made them, God loves them, God sees the intricate web of their stories that I will never fully understand. That matters to me. It keeps my heart soft.

So yes—if you think I need to forgive some people, let me assure you, dear one: I have.

I have done mountains of forgiveness work. Years of it. Decades of it. Hard, holy, sobering forgiveness work that has stretched me open and rebuilt me from the inside out. The kind of forgiveness that costs something. The kind that asks everything in you to loosen your grip when your grip is the only thing that has kept you upright. The kind that feels like dying a little so you can live a lot.

We all know the sayings. Bitterness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Forgiveness is setting your own heart free. Forgiveness takes one; reconciliation takes two.

All true.

But forgiveness is more than platitudes. It is deeper, more complicated. Sometimes forgiveness is a quiet release. Sometimes it is a trembling surrender. Sometimes it is a repeated decision—every day for a season—until your heart catches up with your choice. And sometimes forgiveness invites you to revisit old wounds not to reopen them, but to allow God to apply a different kind of medicine.

A while ago, I came across a journaling forgiveness exercise in Jenna Riemersma’s book Altogether You. It has been one of the most meaningful tools I’ve used when the hurt has felt especially sticky or confusing. If my stories are stirring up your own—if old memories, unspoken wounds, or long-buried griefs are rising to the surface as you read—maybe this will be a gift to you too.

Before you begin, I’d encourage you to find a quiet space. Bring your honesty. Bring your humility. Bring the Holy Spirit into it. Let this be sacred ground.

Here is the exercise:

1. The incident that I have trouble forgiving is . . .
2. One time I demonstrated even a little bit of the same behavior was when . . .
3. What hurt me most about the incident I’m having trouble forgiving was . . .
4. The core wound that it touched from my childhood was . . .
5. The unspoken understanding we had, which was broken, was . . .
6. The aspect of my character that contributed to the conflict is . . .
   (Note: This step doesn’t apply if the injury occurred in childhood.)
7. What I know or imagine about this person that helps me make sense of why he behaved the way he did is . . .
8. The fears I have about letting go at this time are . . .
9. The reality of who I am is . . .
10. The good, bad, or “what might have been” that I’m ready to say goodbye to is . . .
11. The gifts I’m grateful to have gained from this painful experience are . . .
12. The next piece of work I need to do to continue the process of healing is . . .

It’s tender work. Brave work. And truly, it can be freeing.

Because here’s the truth: we are all just human. Beautifully made, deeply wounded, full of contradictions and longings and old stories we don’t know how to stop reenacting. We’ve all been through so much. We’re all still healing. And every one of us is still worthy of love, dignity, and grace.

Years ago, in one of my own seasons of deep forgiveness work, I wrote a simple prayer. I’m offering it to you now, not as a magic formula, but as a doorway. A release valve. A breath.

Heal them, heal me, set us both free.

May that be your prayer too—spoken softly, spoken boldly, spoken again and again until freedom comes.

And may you walk forward lighter. With Jesus beside you. With space in your chest again. With the courage to unclench your hands and receive the wholeness He has been holding for you all along.

For more stories like this, check out my newest e-book, Stories Only Strangers Can See. (But only if you’re a stranger…😉)