Latest / Starting Over: Stories of Reinvention, Hope & Second Chances / Why Holding a Grudge Feels Like Home (And How to Leave) | Starting Over
Transcript
- You know that specific kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with your workload and everything to do with the person who hurt you three years ago? That heavy, familiar weight in your chest is not love, it’s just gravity pulling you back into a story you’ve already finished reading. Let’s get real for a second. I want you to think about the last time you replayed an argument in your head. Maybe it was with a partner who didn’t show up, or a friend who ghosted you, or a family member who said something that still stings every time you hear their name. It’s late at night, the house is quiet, and suddenly you’re twenty-six again, standing in that kitchen, feeling small and unseen. You tell yourself you’re doing this to protect yourself. You’re keeping score. You’re making sure they never forget what they did. But here’s the truth that feels like a slap in the face: holding onto that grudge is actually easier than letting go. Why? Because pain is predictable. If you keep the wound open, you know exactly where it hurts. You have a narrative. You are the victim, and victims have power. They have a reason to be angry. They have a right to take up space in your mind, day after day, year after year. It feels solid. It feels like justice. But let me ask you something gentle: when was the last time that anger actually changed them? When was the last time your resentment forced them to apologize, to change, to see your worth? Never. The only thing it changes is you. It turns your beautiful, expansive life into a tiny room where you live alone with someone else’s memory. And isn’t that exhausting? Isn’t it tiring to be the keeper of other people’s mistakes? We hold grudges because we think they give us control. It’s a defense mechanism, really. If I stay mad, I’m preparing for the next betrayal. If I remember every slight, I won’t be caught off guard again. It’s like building a fortress around your heart so no one can ever hurt you again. But look at that fortress. It’s cold. It’s dark inside. And you’re trapped in there with the ghosts. I learned this the hard way after my first big career pivot. I had been passed over for a promotion by someone I considered a mentor. For months, I carried this bitterness like a stone in my pocket. Every time I walked past his office, I imagined what I would say. I rehearsed my comeback. I felt powerful in my private theater of revenge. But then I realized I was spending more energy thinking about him than I was building my own business. I was letting him occupy square footage in my brain that could have been used for creativity, for joy, for connection. That’s the pivot point, friends. We think we’re punishing them, but we’re just poisoning our own well. We are drinking the poison and expecting the other person to die. It doesn’t work that way. The grudge doesn’t shrink them; it shrinks you. It limits your capacity to trust, to love, to hope. It keeps you anchored to the moment of your deepest hurt, refusing to let you sail toward the horizon of who you could become. Have you ever noticed how your body reacts when you bring up that old conflict? Your shoulders hike up toward your ears. Your jaw clenches so tight it aches. Your breath gets shallow. This is your nervous system reacting as if the threat is happening right now. But it’s not. The event is over. The person is gone, or changed, or irrelevant. Yet your body is still bracing for impact. This is why letting go is so physically difficult. Your body thinks forgiveness is surrender. It thinks dropping the shield makes you vulnerable to attack. But vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s openness. It’s the willingness to feel the wind on your face without trying to predict the storm. I’ve spent years learning to sit with discomfort, to breathe through the urge to retaliate, to choose peace even when my instinct screams for war. And I’ll tell you, it starts with a single breath. Just one. When you feel that heat rising in your chest, pause. Ask yourself: Is this serving me? Is this aligning with the woman I want to be? Not the woman I was when I was scared, but the woman I am becoming. Let’s get real for a second—forgiveness is not saying what happened was okay. It’s not excusing bad behavior. It’s not necessarily reconciling with the person who hurt you. Sometimes, forgiveness is just deciding that you refuse to carry this baggage anymore. You put it down. You walk away lighter. And that lightness? It’s terrifying at first. You feel exposed. You feel raw. But then you notice the sky looks brighter. The air tastes sweeter. You start to remember who you are outside of the drama. When you release the grudge, you reclaim your story. You stop being the character in their tragedy and become the author of your own epic. Think about the energy you’ve been pouring into resentment. Imagine redirecting that same intensity into something that builds you up. Write that book. Start that garden. Call that friend who makes you laugh until your sides hurt. Travel to that place you’ve always dreamed of. Life is too short to spend it editing a movie that ended years ago. You are the director now. You get to decide what happens in the next scene. And spoiler alert: the next scene is better. It’s messier, maybe, but it’s alive. It’s full of possibility. I remember sitting on my balcony one evening, watching the sun dip below the skyline, and realizing I hadn’t thought about that old conflict in weeks. It wasn’t because they apologized. It wasn’t because the world corrected itself. It was because I got busy living. I found new joys, new struggles, new triumphs that were entirely mine. The old wound didn’t disappear, but it stopped bleeding. It became a scar, a reminder of where I’d been, but not a map for where I was going. And that’s the magic. Healing isn’t about erasing the past; it’s about integrating it. It’s about taking the lessons and leaving the luggage. It’s about understanding that your worth is not defined by how others treat you, but by how you treat yourself in the aftermath. So, how do we actually do this? How do we let go when it feels like our survival depends on holding on? It starts with compassion. Compassion for yourself, yes, but also compassion for them. This doesn’t mean excusing them. It means understanding that their actions came from their own pain, their own limitations, their own brokenness. Everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about. When you see the hurt behind the harm, it becomes harder to hate. It becomes easier to pity. And pity is a much lighter emotion than anger. It allows you to step back. It allows you to see the humanity in the monster. I know, I know—it sounds cheesy. It sounds naive. But I’ve seen it work. I’ve watched women transform their lives by choosing kindness over contempt. Not fake, polite kindness, but deep, fierce, boundary-setting kindness. Kindness that says, 'I will not let your darkness dim my light.' That is true strength. That is resilience. It’s not about being a doormat. It’s about being a lighthouse. You stand firm. You shine bright. You warn ships away if they need warning, but you don’t go out into the storm to drag them to shore. You just be. You exist. You thrive. And in that thriving, you find a freedom that no grudge could ever give you. So today, I invite you to try something radical. Drop the stone. Take a breath. Look at the horizon. The view is waiting for you. Thank you for letting me into your space today. I’m Sacha Beasty, and I believe in your power to reinvent, to heal, and to thrive. Until next time, keep choosing joy, even in the messy middle. You’ve got this.