“But If It Makes You Feel Better…”
[PART ONE: THE STORY]
“The Apology”
The Black Rifle Coffee on Veterans Boulevard was always busier than it looked from the outside. Simon had picked it intentionally… neutral ground, public enough to keep things civil, familiar enough that he wouldn’t feel ambushed.
He was halfway through his second cup when Danny slid into the booth across from him.
“Thanks for meeting me, brother.”
Simon didn’t respond to the “brother.” He just waited.
Danny had been his sergeant’s best friend since boot camp. They’d all served together, gotten out the same year, stayed close through all of it, which made him the obvious choice to play middleman. The neutral party. The peacemaker.
“Look,” Danny said, leaning in, “I’m not here to take sides. I just think you two have too much history to let this thing destroy everything.”
“This thing,” Simon repeated.
“You know what I mean. The business stuff. The falling out. All of it.”
“The business stuff.” Simon set his cup down slowly. “You mean when he pulled forty thousand out of the operating account and told me it was for equipment we never bought?”
Danny winced. “He says it’s more complicated than that.”
“He said a lot of things. First, he said he didn’t take it. Then, when I showed him the records, he said I owed him for ‘sweat equity.’ Then, when I pointed out we had a contract that said otherwise, he went on LinkedIn and Instagram, telling anyone who’d listen that I was impossible to work with. Called me unstable. Hinted at things he knows aren’t true.”
Danny rubbed his face. “He’s angry. People say things when they’re angry.”
“He’s not angry, Danny. He’s caught. There’s a difference.”
The shop’s speakers shifted tracks. A guitar riff punched through the ambient noise… immediately recognizable. “Remember the Name” by Fort Minor. Simon felt his stomach tighten.
Danny looked up, a half-smile crossing his face. “Hey… that was you guys’ jam, right? He told me about it. Said you two used to blast this before stepping off on missions. Get dialed in.” He nodded toward the speaker. “Maybe it’s a sign.”
Simon didn’t smile. He stared at the table until the chorus hit, then looked up.
“It used to mean something,” he said quietly. “We’d sit in the vehicle, helmets on, waiting for the ramp to drop, and that song would come through the speakers, and I’d think: this guy next to me would die for me, and I’d die for him. That’s what that song meant.”
He finally met Danny’s eyes.
“Now it makes me sick. Because I hear it and I remember trusting someone with my life who couldn’t be trusted with a checkbook. And it’s not the money, Danny. I’d have given him the money if he’d asked. It’s that he took it, lied about it, and when he couldn’t lie anymore, he tried to destroy my name so no one would believe me when I told the truth.”
Danny sat back. “So that’s it? You’re never going to forgive him?”
“Did he send you here to ask that?”
The pause answered the question.
“He wants to move forward,” Danny said carefully. “Put it behind you both. He said he’s willing to let go of the resentment if you are.”
“His resentment.”
“He feels like you’ve been holding this over his head. Making him look bad to the guys.”
Simon chuckled with the exhausted recognition of a pattern completing itself.
“He stole from me. Lied about it. Tried to ruin my reputation. And now he wants me to forgive him so he can stop feeling uncomfortable around our friends.” Simon shook his head. “That’s not forgiveness. That’s a magic trick.”
He stood, leaving cash on the table.
“You want to help him, Danny? Tell him what forgiveness actually costs. Tell him it starts with three words he’s never said: I was wrong. If he ever says them and means them, really means them, I’ll be here. I’ll forgive him the same day. Gladly.”
He zipped his jacket.
“But I’m not handing out absolution to a man who thinks he’s owed it. That’s not mercy. That’s just enabling.”
The song was still playing when he walked out. Danny sat alone in the booth, coffee untouched, watching the door swing shut.
Outside, Simon didn’t look back. The music faded behind him, and for the first time in months, the silence felt like relief.
[PART TWO: THE THEORY]
There’s a phrase that’s wormed its way into our cultural vocabulary, usually offered to someone in pain:
“Forgiveness isn’t about them. It’s about you.”
It sounds wise. Compassionate, even. And there’s a sliver of truth buried in it. The psychological research does show that people who forgive tend to experience lower blood pressure, reduced anxiety, and better emotional regulation. Carrying resentment is genuinely corrosive.
But somewhere along the way, we took that sliver and redefined it. What was once an interpersonal act, a gift extended toward someone who wronged you, was repackaged as a self-help technique. A form of emotional hygiene. Something you do for yourself, with the offender reduced to a prop in your personal wellness journey.
I think this gets it exactly backward.
Forgiveness is a gift. And gifts have recipients. When you forgive someone, you’re boldly offering them something they don’t deserve: a clean slate. You’re saying, I have the right to hold this against you. I’m choosing not to. That’s not a transaction you complete in your own head. It’s extended toward someone. The entire moral weight of forgiveness comes from the fact that it’s unearned and that you’re giving something to the person who took from you out of pure selflessness.
If we reduce forgiveness to “letting go of anger for your own peace,” we’ve stripped out the other person entirely. And without a recipient, what you’re left with isn’t forgiveness. It’s just coping. Which is fine… coping is necessary. But let’s not dress it up in virtue’s clothing.
The problem is accountability.
Here’s where I suspect I’ll lose some readers, but I’ll say it anyway: I don’t believe forgiveness is always appropriate.
Forgiveness, properly understood, is an offer. But offers can be declined… or rendered meaningless. If the person who wronged you shows no recognition that they did wrong you, no accountability, no change in behavior… then what exactly are you forgiving? You’re handing a clean slate to someone who doesn’t believe the old one had anything written on it.
The philosopher Nicholas Wolterstorff puts it this way: you can be willing to forgive. You can hold a forgiving disposition. But the completed act of forgiveness requires participation from both sides. Without the offender repenting in a declaration of moral bankruptcy, you’re not forgiving. You’re just surrendering.
And surrendering to someone who hasn’t changed isn’t noble. It’s an invitation for them to do it again.
Healing is not the same as forgiving.
This is the crucial distinction that the self-help framing collapses. Yes, you need to heal. Yes, you need to find a way to live without the resentment eating you alive. But that healing process is yours. It belongs to you, and you can pursue it whether or not the offender ever acknowledges what they did.
Forgiveness, though, is relational. It requires something from the other person: the recognition that something needs forgiving. If they don’t believe they’ve done wrong, your “forgiveness” becomes a fiction you’re telling yourself for their convenience.
You can heal without forgiving.
And sometimes, even many times… and perhaps most times, you should.
When forgiveness re-victimizes victims:
There’s a darker edge to the “forgiveness is for you” narrative that we don’t talk about enough: it can become a tool of manipulation. How many victims have been pressured to “forgive” abusers who never acknowledged the abuse? How many people have been told their unwillingness to forgive is the real problem, thereby reframing legitimate grievance as a character flaw?
When we tell wounded people that forgiveness is “for them,” we’re putting the burden of resolution entirely on their shoulders. The offender walks free, and the victim is now responsible for their own peace of mind. It’s a neat trick. It lets a lot of people off the hook. And it’s bullshit.
So, when should you forgive? When someone owns what they did. When they understand the weight of it. When they demonstrate, not just in words, but in changed behavior, that they recognize the harm and are working to ensure it doesn’t happen again.
At that point, forgiveness becomes what it was always meant to be: an extraordinary gift. A second chance that costs you a lot to give. An act of genuine mercy, extended to someone who finally understands they need it.
That kind of forgiveness heals both people. That kind of forgiveness restores relationships instead of just papering over damage. That kind of forgiveness has teeth because it requires something real from everyone involved.
So, don’t mistake forgiveness for “letting go,” so you can “find peace,” while the offender never changes. That’s just a story we tell ourselves so we can stop being angry at people who never stopped deserving it.
But do forgive in the real sense, as it demonstrates powerful humanity. When you are truly prepared to give it, and the recipient is prepared to accept it, it is a rare and powerful phenomenon.
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If you liked this story (and I know you did), please check out T’s popular book, “Life in the Fishbowl.” In it, he documents his time as a deep undercover cop in Houston, where he took down 51 of the nation’s most notorious Crips.
He donates all profits to charities that mentor children of incarcerated parents.
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Tegan Broadwater is an entrepreneur, author, musician, former undercover officer, podcast host, and positive change-maker.
Learn more about his latest projects at TeganBroadwater.com
Tegan’s Music (Artist name: Tee Cad)
Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/5LSl3h5TWN1n4ER7b7lYTn?si=o7XaRWEeTPabfddLEZRonA
iTunes: https://music.apple.com/us/artist/tee-cad/1510253180
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@teecad/releases
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