"This shift in perspective wasn’t about forgiving or forgetting. It was about understanding"
Sometimes I imagine my mom and your dad, sharing "when I was 16" war stories in the afterlife. Understanding, along with mourning can be a recipe for forgiveness but I don't think we can ever truly "forget"-- maybe just move into acceptance and letting go if we are able to transform and live out a healthier version of this recognition.
Seeing our kids (or even imagining our younger selves) at those same ages and being able to hold even some of it all, with empathy and reframing, can really build a new foundation 🙏🏼
Meanwhile, the same dirt is underneath Composting a new sense of aliveness...
Bee, I love this so much—especially that image of our parents sharing “when I was 16” war stories in the afterlife. It captures both the absurdity and the heartbreak of what they passed on. I really resonate with what you said about understanding and mourning being part of a path toward a different kind of acceptance. The word transform feels so key.
What you said about seeing our kids, or our younger selves, at those ages really hit me. That’s exactly where the empathy cracks open, isn’t it? Not excusing, but expanding the lens enough to hold complexity.
And yes, the dirt is still there. But it’s compost now. That metaphor is perfect: not erased, not prettified—just broken down and feeding something new.
"This shift in perspective wasn’t about forgiving or forgetting. It was about understanding"
Sometimes I imagine my mom and your dad, sharing "when I was 16" war stories in the afterlife. Understanding, along with mourning can be a recipe for forgiveness but I don't think we can ever truly "forget"-- maybe just move into acceptance and letting go if we are able to transform and live out a healthier version of this recognition.
Seeing our kids (or even imagining our younger selves) at those same ages and being able to hold even some of it all, with empathy and reframing, can really build a new foundation 🙏🏼
Meanwhile, the same dirt is underneath Composting a new sense of aliveness...
Bee, I love this so much—especially that image of our parents sharing “when I was 16” war stories in the afterlife. It captures both the absurdity and the heartbreak of what they passed on. I really resonate with what you said about understanding and mourning being part of a path toward a different kind of acceptance. The word transform feels so key.
What you said about seeing our kids, or our younger selves, at those ages really hit me. That’s exactly where the empathy cracks open, isn’t it? Not excusing, but expanding the lens enough to hold complexity.
And yes, the dirt is still there. But it’s compost now. That metaphor is perfect: not erased, not prettified—just broken down and feeding something new.