If Forgiveness Is Feminine, Call Me Masculine

A manifesto from the girl who didn't move on, and isn’t sorry.

I know women who were beaten by men they once curled up beside. Not in metaphor. In the small hours between toast and toothbrushing. In rooms filled with things they bought together. I know women who were shoved into wardrobes they once hung their dresses in, women who were choked between conversations about dinner. I know women who slept beside the same hands that bruised them, because it was safer to keep him warm than to wake him up. Women who were spat on, then told to be kind. Women who were handed scripture instead of justice. Told that holding on to rage would sour their souls. As if the rage wasn’t earned. As if the wound was the woman’s to resolve. As if trauma is a mess only she should mop up, barefoot and smiling.

Forgiveness is not a virtue. It’s a tax. Levied on women the moment they name what was done to them. You can be torn open, but never torn loud. You can cry, but not leak. You can break, but only in private, only in ways that don’t disturb the room. And you can survive, of course, if you’re willing to gift-wrap that survival in patience, silence, and a sentence that starts with “but I’ve learned so much.” The world loves a woman who’s healed fast. Healed pretty. Healed politely. It does not know what to do with a woman who has decided to remember on purpose.

The apology, when it arrives, if it arrives, is limp and latex-like. It rarely fits the shape of the wound. “I didn’t mean to.” “I was going through a lot.” “I’ve changed.” None of it asks what it cost her to make it to morning. None of it stays long enough to see where the pain lives now—in her blood sugar, her sleep cycle, her sex life, her silence. She is told to let it go while it is still pulsing in her jaw. She is told that if she does not forgive, she will never be free, as if forgiveness is some key she just refuses to turn, and not the very lock that keeps her in place.

Men are permitted their fury. Women must host theirs like bad dinner guests. But only if it’s quietly, with folded napkins and second helpings. A man who stays angry is principled. A woman who does is poisonous. He gets to throw plates, she has to serve them. His rage is legacy. Hers is an inconvenience. He is haunted. She is hysterical. When a man refuses to forgive, we call it strength. When a woman does, we call it a grudge. And if she dares to say it out loud (“I do not forgive him”) she becomes something unpalatable. A cautionary tale. A bitter bitch in boots.

I want to speak now for every woman who kept the story inside her lungs until it calcified. Who asked herself if maybe she overreacted, simply because no one else flinched. Who tried to heal by erasing, by rewriting, by renaming what was done until it sounded noble. I want to speak for the woman who said, finally, “I don’t forgive him”, and watched the temperature drop. Watched friends change the subject. Watched the whole room shift like she’d dropped a curse, not a truth. Forgiveness is not your birthright. It is not your duty. It is not the final act in the play. You are allowed to leave the theatre halfway through and set the script on fire.

So here it is. The unfinished list. A hundred ways you will not make yourself (or others) smaller just to make him forgivable:

• I will not forgive the hands that learned my body like a roadmap and then turned it into a crime scene.

• I will not forgive the man who told me he loved me while unclenching his fists.

• I will not forgive the moment I stopped recognising my own reflection.

• I will not forgive the silence of friends who did not want to take sides.

• I will not forgive the slow disappearance of everyone I thought would stay.

• I will not forgive the way he said sorry like it was spare change.

• I will not forgive the nights I stayed just to stay alive.

• I will not forgive the apology that arrived in the shape of a question.

• I will not forgive the time he called me crazy for crying at my own story.

• I will not forgive the version of myself I became to make him feel safe.

• I will not forgive the hours I spent rehearsing what I’d never get to say.

• I will not forgive the man who learned the word “boundaries” and still crossed them.

• I will not forgive the therapist who asked what I could’ve done differently.

• I will not forgive how long it took me to believe myself.

• I will not forgive the breath I held when someone mentioned his name.

• I will not forgive the celebration of his growth while I was still excavating my ruin.

• I will not forgive how easily he was welcomed back.

• I will not forgive the question: “Are you sure it happened like that?”

• I will not forgive the times I turned pain into poetry instead of protest.

• I will not forgive the version of forgiveness that asks me to disappear.

Some things aren’t meant to be forgiven. They are meant to be named. Meant to be nailed into bone. Meant to live without apology. Your refusal is not a flaw. It’s simply a map. Follow it. Let it lead you to yourself. Let it turn you into something loud. Something unsaintly. Something alive. You do not owe softness to the thing that tried to break you. You owe truth. And this, finally, is what truth sounds like when it isn’t trying to be liked.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This piece speaks to romantic violence, but the weight of survival and the pressure to perform forgiveness can live in all kinds of relationships — familial, platonic, professional, even spiritual. Abuse doesn’t always look like fists. It can look like silence. Like guilt. Like being told to let it go before you've even named what it was. If something in this essay echoed in your chest, you’re not overreacting. You’re remembering.

If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence or emotional abuse, here are some resources:

United Kingdom:

• National Domestic Abuse Helpline (Refuge): 0808 2000 247 | www.nationaldahelpline.org.uk

• Women's Aid: www.womensaid.org.uk

• Victim Support: www.victimsupport.org.uk​Victim Support

United States:

• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 | www.thehotline.org

• RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673 | www.rainn.org​

Canada:

• Shelter Safe: www.sheltersafe.ca

• Kids Help Phone (for youth): 1-800-668-6868 | www.kidshelpphone.ca​

Australia:

• 1800RESPECT: 1800 737 732 | www.1800respect.org.au

• Lifeline: 13 11 14 | www.lifeline.org.au​

India:

• National Commission for Women Helpline: 7827170170 | www.ncwwomenhelpline.in

• Women Helpline (All India): 1091​

South Africa:

• Gender-Based Violence Command Centre: 0800 428 428 or 1207867#

• People Opposing Women Abuse (POWA): 011 642 4345 | www.powa.co.za​

Ireland:

• Women's Aid: 1800 341 900 | www.womensaid.ie

• Safe Ireland: www.safeireland.ie​

New Zealand:

• Are You OK: 0800 456 450 | www.areyouok.org.nz

• Shine: 0508 744 633 | www.2shine.org.nz​

Germany:

• Violence Against Women Helpline: 08000 116 016 | www.hilfetelefon.de​

France:

• 3919 – National Domestic Violence Helpline: www.solidaritefemmes.org​

Remember, seeking help is a sign of strength, not weakness. You deserve support, safety, and healing on your own terms.​ There is no timeline for your healing. And there is no moral gold star for forgiving the person who fractured you. You do not have to explain your pain to make it real. You do not have to soften your survival to make it palatable.