Writing to
Release

There's a practice I first learned during one of the darkest seasons of my life — my divorce. A pastor I was learning from at the time suggested something simple: write a letter to the person who hurt you. Say everything. Hold nothing back. Then choose — burn it, tear it up, or send it. Either way, you're free to let it go.

I wrote seven of those letters back then. Some asked for forgiveness. Some extended it. All of them lifted something off of me I didn't realize I was still carrying. It remains one of the most freeing things I've ever done.

I found myself reaching for that same practice recently.

I'm in another hard season right now — one involving people who were placed in a position to care for me, and instead chose to critique, control, and mischaracterize what I was carrying. No questions asked. No patterns studied. No real effort to understand what was happening outside of what they could see from the outside looking in.

So I did what I know how to do: I sat in prayer, and I wrote.

I wrote about being misunderstood. I wrote about the times I stayed silent rather than defend myself against being called "difficult" or "too sensitive" — labels that shifted depending on someone else's mood that day. I wrote about what it means to answer to God first, before I ever owe an explanation to anyone else.

And then, like before, I got to choose what happens to it.

I share this not for sympathy, and not because the letter itself needs an audience. I share it because I think a lot of us are sitting on words we've never let ourselves write — out of fear, out of exhaustion, out of not wanting to "make it a thing." But there's a difference between avoiding conflict and finding release. One keeps you stuck. The other sets you free.

If you're in a season like this, here's what I'd offer: you don't need the other person's permission to close a chapter. You don't need them to admit fault, apologize, or even read what you have to say. Closure is something you're allowed to give yourself.

Write it down. All of it. Then decide — privately, prayerfully — what happens next. Burn it. Send it. Keep it in a drawer. The letter isn't for them. It's for you.