The Weight of a Grudge I Once Carried

Are you holding a grudge? About?

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I used to believe I didn’t hold grudges. I thought I was the kind of person who let things slide, who forgave quickly, who moved on before bitterness could take root. But then came a moment that tested that belief.

It was a friend—someone I trusted with pieces of myself I didn’t share with many. One day, without warning, they let my secret slip in a casual conversation with others. It wasn’t malicious, not intended to wound, but it cut deeper than anything else had at that time. I smiled on the surface, pretended it didn’t bother me, but inside, I began building walls brick by brick.

Days turned to weeks, and every laugh, every text, every interaction with them was colored by that betrayal. I told myself I was fine, but the truth was—I was holding a grudge. I carried it around like a small stone in my pocket, always there, always reminding me.

And then, one evening, I realized something: the stone had grown heavier, not because of what they had done, but because of what I had chosen to hold onto. My grudge wasn’t hurting them—it was only exhausting me. So I let it go. Not in a dramatic confrontation, not even in a direct conversation, but in a quiet moment of release within myself.

Today, when I think of that friend, I don’t feel the sting anymore. I remember the laughter, the good times, and even the lesson that came wrapped in pain. I learned that forgiveness isn’t about excusing someone—it’s about freeing myself.

So, am I holding a grudge now? No. But I once did. And I learned that grudges are nothing but borrowed weights—we carry them longer than we should, and they never belong to us in the first place.

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