Forgiveness Found in the Making of a Quilt

I used to think forgiveness was a finish line —neat, satisfying moment when the hurt would dissolve and peace would flood in.

But healing isn’t tidy. Forgiveness isn’t a moment; it’s a process. It’s something we choose again and again, like pulling thread through cloth, knot by knot, stitch by stitch.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this as I begin a new journey with my mom — a relationship that’s been marked by estrangement and distance for longer than I care to admit. Healing the past doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t happen because you say, “I forgive you.” It happens in the slow, careful work of showing up differently — even when your hands shake. It happens in the small choices to stay open, to stay curious, to lay another stitch.

We’ve decided to make a quilt together.

Not just any quilt — but one stitched with fabric made from my sister’s art.

My sister, who we left the planet just ten months ago.

The grief is still raw and at times feels like breathing cold air into my lungs.

But somehow, her creativity — the life she poured into every brushstroke and sketch — has become the bridge. She is stitching us back together in a way that words couldn’t.

This quilt nor the process will be perfect. Some seams will be crooked. Some stitches too tight, others too loose.

Kind of like us.

But that’s what healing really looks like: messy, imperfect, deeply human.

I’m learning that owning my healing means I can’t wait for someone else to hand it to me, perfectly packaged.

It means stepping forward, even when I’m scared.

It means making the choice to soften, even when it would be easier to stay hard.

It means reaching across the gap, even when I’m not sure what I’ll find on the other side.

Forgiveness isn’t forgetting or excusing.

It’s saying: I want something more than I want to stay hurt.

It’s choosing love over fear — again, and again, and again.

Each stitch we make will hold something: memory, grief, hope, maybe even a little peace.

Each stitch will be a small act of forgiveness — not just for her, but for me, too.

And when we finish — whether it takes weeks, months, or years — we’ll have something we made together.

Not perfect. But real.

Something stitched with forgiveness, grace, and a whole lot of love.

And maybe that’s enough.

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