Uncommon Path Network

Dear Path Finder,

I pray you find your purposeful path, walk audaciously in it, and inspire others to find theirs too.

Can we talk?

This one is tender. It’s for the heart that wants to forgive but doesn’t know how to start. A quiet invitation to release what’s heavy, and to remember that freedom begins with one hard conversation. This is my heart-to-heart with you, Pathfinder. I pray it reminds you that peace is still possible, even here.

Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve experienced some of the pettiest things, like not being liked simply because my light shines a little too brightly? Not because I ever tried to outshine anyone, but because just being myself seemed to make others uncomfortable. I have been called “too much” for as long as I can remember. Too wise for my age. Too articulate. Too calm. Too loved. Too sure. Too confident. Too everything.

It started as early as six years old, when I began to notice that some people, even family members, watched me not with curiosity, but with quiet caution. There were a few who, whether knowingly or not, seemed to take it upon themselves to keep an eye on me, almost as if ensuring that I did not become too much of what they feared I could be. And while I didn’t have the language for it then, I carried that experience into adulthood, that unsettling awareness of being measured, monitored, and sometimes resented for simply existing as I am.

I never realised how much this shaped my understanding of forgiveness until recently, when a close friend judged me for forgiving the unforgivable. That moment confronted me. It made me wonder if perhaps I had misunderstood myself all along. Was I naïve? Was I weak? Was I foolish for forgiving what others said they never would? I found myself almost bargaining with God, asking if maybe I could be excused from this one, just this one, because the hurt felt too deep, too personal, too unjust.

I am inviting you to journey with me through this weighty and consuming concept of forgiveness. Not as someone who has mastered it, but as someone still learning, still choosing, still healing. Will you give me your ear? This is a safe space, I promise.

When you forgive, you are not just setting someone else free. You are offering God the most tender parts of yourself, the ache for justice, the craving to be understood, the weight of words you never got to say.

It is hard and costly:

There is a cost to forgiveness, a deep, invisible cost that the world rarely acknowledges. It is a sacred decision that often feels unfair because it asks us to surrender something we believe we deserve. It asks us to release what feels unresolved, to lay down the desire to explain ourselves, and to stop waiting for an apology that may never come.

It is not a light thing. It feels like dying in small, unspoken ways. Because sometimes forgiveness means giving up your right to be angry, even when anger feels justified. It means letting go of the comfort of being the victim, because being healed means you no longer have that identity to hold on to. It means accepting that you might never get to tell your side of the story, and still choosing peace over vindication.

Forgiveness will sometimes cost you how others see you. People might think you are careless, naïve, or desperate to please. They may question your strength or your boundaries. But forgiveness is not foolishness. It is not weakness. It is courage in its purest form, the quiet kind that looks up to heaven and says, “God, I trust You to handle what I cannot.”

Forgiveness gives you back yourself. It allows you to love without fear, to make decisions without resentment clouding your vision. It fills your heart with compassion, even for those who once hurt you, because you begin to see them through eyes no longer blinded by pain.

The Work of the Cross:

Most beautifully, forgiveness brings you closer to the cross. It is there, at the intersection of pain and love, that we find the truest picture of what it means to forgive. Jesus did not wait for us to deserve it. He did not wait for our apologies or promises to do better. He forgave because His love was greater than our sin, and because freedom, ours and His, required it. That same love now lives in us, inviting us to do the same.

As you step into this new season, I want you to remember that God is not asking you to carry old pain into new beginnings. This next chapter of your life is too sacred for bitterness to occupy space in it. Lay down the weight you have been carrying, the heaviness that has followed you quietly into every room. It is safe to let it go. It is safe to forgive.

You might never get the “why.” You might not receive the apology, the explanation, or the closure you think you need. But what God offers in return is far greater, peace that surpasses understanding, peace that settles in the deepest parts of your heart and whispers, “You can rest now. I’ve got this.”

Be prepared to reconcile, where possible:

And sometimes, in that peace, He will ask you to do the hard thing, to reach out, to reconcile, to have the conversation that makes your heart tremble. And if He does, know this, even in that discomfort, you are safe. God will not lead you into vulnerability without covering you with grace.

Maybe, as you read this, someone’s face has come to mind. Maybe it still hurts. Maybe it’s been years, and you’ve learned to live around the wound. I want you to know that you can talk to God about it. Tell Him everything, the words you never said, the tears you never cried, the anger you never expressed. He can handle it. And He can heal it.

If there is something you need to let go of, something you’ve carried long enough, start that conversation with Him tonight. And if you need someone to stand with you in prayer, I would be honored to hold that space with you.

Forgiveness doesn’t make the past right, it makes your heart light.

If this piece touched something tender in you, I would love to hear from you or pray with you as you begin this journey of release. You’re not alone, Pathfinder, you are seen, held, and covered in grace.

Shalom,

Oyena