CIII. On Forgiveness
We forgive because it’s in our aristocratic nature.
PS: Related, How To Deal With Toxic People
“In a sense, people are our proper occupation. Our job is to do them good and put up with them. But when they obstruct our proper tasks, they become irrelevant to us—like sun, wind, animals. Our actions may be impeded by them, but there can be no impeding our intentions or our dispositions. Because we can accommodate and adapt.” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 5.20
A common question I get asked is, why should we forgive?
Well, to begin with, we do it because it’s beneath us to keep bleeding over things that aren’t worthy of us. I know, at first this won’t feel noble—it seems like surrender. We think letting go will make us look weak, like we’re naive and easy to walk over. That we’ll be laughed at and thought of as fools, pitied, or continue to be misunderstood. But the truth is, nothing makes us harder to wound than the decision to no longer let fools determine our mood, thoughts and energy for the day or even weeks. We stop watering old insults to fuel our retribution. We stop chewing on injustice. We stop looking back, no longer letting the present moment, our life, pass us by. Forgiveness is mastery of what deserves our energy. And revenge, resentment, petty bitterness—none of it scales or makes us happy. Haven't we got better things to do? Our potential to fulfill? Our honor to uphold? What we've persevered under the hands of others is minuscule compared to the consequences of dishonor. To put it succintly,
"The value of attentiveness varies in proportion to its object. You're better off not giving the small things more time than they deserve." ― Marcus Aurelius
Second, because the world doesn’t stop for us to indulge our grudges. Our work, our relationships, our fulfillment, our pursuit of excellence won’t wait while we nurse bruised pride. Sure, when we forgive, we don’t forget. But we free up bandwidth and exude better vibes. That space? We use it to work. To love. To build. We become less reactive. We laugh more. We become better friends, better parents, better lovers—because in going against the resistance to understand and be compassionate with our wrongdoers, we've greatly strengthened our empathetic muscle. We’re not confusing those we care about with ghosts past gone. We’re not making them pay for what someone else did. We’re not caught up in a nightmare of endless suspicion. It’s as Marcus Aurelius put it,
“In the ring, our opponent can gouge us with their nails or butt us with their head and leave a bruise, but we don’t protest or take offence, and we do not suspect him ever afterwards of malicious intent. We just keep an eye on him after that. Not out of hatred or suspicion. Just keeping a friendly distance. So let it be, too, at other times in life; let us agree to overlook a great many things in those who are, as it were, our fellow-contestants. A simple avoidance, as I have said, is always open to us, without either suspicion or ill will."
Forgiveness gives us more patience. We look at the people we care about and understand they’re not perfect, but neither are we. And suddenly the need to stay hypervigilant and savage dies off. We begin extending grace where we once would've raised hell. Not out of passivity, but out of a deeper empathy. We put ourselves in our opponent’s shoes and realize they probably thought they were doing the right thing. Even Lex Luthor had his reasons to harm Superman, albeit from a flawed value system, but our hero didn't let it get to him; he continued to do and be good. That’s why you,
“Don’t waste the rest of your time here worrying about other people—unless it affects the common good. It will keep you from doing anything useful. You’ll be too preoccupied with what so-and-so is doing, and why, and what they’re saying, and what they’re thinking, and what they’re up to, and all the other things that throw you off and keep you from focusing on your own mind.” — Meditations 3.4
“It’s silly to try to escape other people’s faults. They are inescapable. Just try to escape your own.” — Meditations 7.71
Third, sometimes the act of forgiving reveals what never belonged in our lives to begin with. When we drop the vindictiveness, we see clearly who was real. And who never was. The ones who belonged get closer. The ones who were feeding off the drama disappear. We don't have to burn bridges or make a scene. The fake ones just drop off like Autumn leaves—because they know they can no longer get a rise out of us, can't influence our self esteem, can't ask for anything they know they don't deserve hoping we'll give it to them, can't cross our boundaries because we're firm. Because we know they need us to feel powerful and we’ve stopped giving them the opportunity to exert themselves. Because we’ve chosen stillness. And the truth is, on a long enough timeline, sincerity survives. If we had good intentions, if we wanted the best for them and they spat on us—that’s their loss, not ours. We stay high-minded. We stay clean. They never touched our ability to choose. They never made us act dishonorably. You can even laugh at it all by asking,
“When people injure you, ask yourself what good or harm they thought would come of it.” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.26
Besides,
“What can even the most vicious person do if you keep treating him with kindness and gently set him straight—if you get the chance—correcting him cheerfully at the exact moment that he’s trying to do you harm.” — Meditations 11.18
Fourth, what forgiveness does—more than give us peace—is that it hardens us. It makes us dangerous again. Not in the way of fury or vengeance, but in our impenetrability. Because we’ve already survived what we feared. We’ve seen the worst of someone, and it didn’t break us. We saw betrayal, heard the insult, took the blow—and we didn’t lose our nobility. We endured the pain, grieved, buried the grudge, and got back to our path. Not many people can do that. Do you realize how strong and amazing you are? That’s how we become invincible as Epictetus goaded his students,"Who then is invincible? The one who cannot be upset by anything outside their reasoned choice." That’s how our inner citadel is built.
Forgiveness makes us more risk-tolerant and confident of our ability to bounce back, not less. We stop fearing what might happen because we’ve seen how well we do when the worst does. When someone acts out, we don’t overreact. We look at them and say as Epictetus did in disdain of external events, “This is nothing to me.” Or as Marcus Aurelius did, "no matter what anyone says or does, my task is to be good. like gold or emerald or purple repeating to itself, "no matter what anyone says or does, my task is to be emerald, my color undiminished."
We become greater through forgiveness more so because we've not only endured betrayal, disappointment, insults or whatever onslaught, but we've overcome our hostility and have had the courage to face, understand and embrace these people as just human even if we're a bit disappointed and think they could have done better and, justifiably so, wouldn't want to be around them. Yet, we don’t fear them.
Fifth, we forgive because we owe it to ourselves and those we'll interact with later to move on. And to do that, we have to understand what drives a wrongdoer’s motives. We have to accept that most people are not evil—they’re just confused, misled, insecure, or surviving the only way they know how. So we stop expecting them to become what they never promised to be. We stop romanticizing the paradise that could’ve been. We get to see reality as it is, that how we think and what we want is different, and this truth strengthens us enough to walk away without bitterness. Because aligning with this idea is the belief that there are people out there who will see our worth. Who will meet us halfway. Who will honor our presence and do good by us. But we’ll never find them if we’re still orbiting the ones who didn’t. Isn’t it true that,
“You can hold your breath until you turn blue, but they’ll still go on doing it?” — Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 8.4
Lastly, remember that when people do wrong by us, they don’t affect our agency. They don’t decide how we work, how we create, how we lead, adapt or recover. They don’t impact our bottom line, our mission, our honor. That’s within our full control. Always has been. And every moment spent fantasizing about revenge is a moment stolen from what matters. So we redirect our impulses. We pour that heat into our own refinement. We ask: when have I acted like this? Who have I hurt someone without knowing? What wounds in me caused me to pass mine on? Why am I finding it hard to forgive this person? Why am I still angry and fearful of them? And that’s where we get back our power. Because only the ones who do that work grow from the pain. So,
"When faced with people's bad behavior, turn around and ask when you have acted like that. When you saw money as a good, or pleasure, or social position. Your anger will subside as soon as you recognize that they acted under compulsion (what else could they do?)" ― Marcus Aurelius
That’s what Stoics do. They don’t stew. They don’t plot. They wait for and accept genuine apologies if people are so inclined. They carry on. They choose people more prudently next time. They offer guidance when someone is willing. And when they’re not? They let life teach them. There’s no need to shout. No need to curse. If someone can’t be helped by reason, they’ll be helped by consequence. That’s the law of the world. Not ours to enforce. Ours is to stay principled. To live and love wisely. To forgive without groveling. To do good no matter what. And thus, as we conclude,
“You’ll find that none of the people you’re upset about has done anything that could do damage to your mind…Yes, boorish people do boorish things. What’s strange or unheard-of about that? Isn’t it yourself you should reproach—for not anticipating that they’d act this way? The logos gave you the means to see it—that a given person would act a given way—but you paid no attention. And now you’re astonished that he’s gone and done it. So when you call someone “untrustworthy” or “ungrateful,” turn the reproach on yourself. It was you who did wrong. By assuming that someone with those traits deserved your trust.” — Meditations 9.42
This isn’t sainthood. No, far from it. It’s sovereignty. And forgiveness is one of its chief powers. Because it allows us to choose peace. To live untethered, to act from strength, to walk with dignity, to become a better person—no matter what has been done to us.
We forgive because it’s in our aristocratic nature.
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This came to my inbox at the right moment. It gave me much needed perspective. Thank you.
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