Last night, I said sorry to a seven year-old who wished me the best of bests. I took courage to confront her and told this innocent child that what she sees right now is not her fault. That my incompetence is not because she played all the time back then instead of reading science books and learning math. I told her that cherishing each second of her childhood wasn’t bad at all.
I assured her that I wasn’t mad of her wonder and enthusiasm. And sincerely apologized for passing the blame. For constantly blaming the past. For constantly bugging the closed doors. For not letting her sleep soundly because of my regrets.
Last night too, I said sorry to a fourteen year-old who dreamt bigger than herself. As much as I could, I remembered the arks she built in places she overcame. I acknowledged every little success, every seed she planted, and every clap she heard, that turned into completion, a fruitful tree, and an audience who waits for her next work.
I asked her for forgiveness because I didn’t believe her. I laughed at her impossible dreams and tried to stop her from being who she wants to be. For making her feel that she needs to be perfect, that she must always know what to do in any situation, unless she wants to rot in misery.
I confessed and apologized for not validating her feelings. For not accepting her weaknesses and shortcomings. For hating her because she’s fragile. I said sorry because I have tried to push her down the cliff many times. Because I attempted to burn the canvas of her dream.
And she deserves to know why, so I explained, that it was my greed that made me do it. I was jealous because she’s not afraid. Because nothing intimidated her. Not even the thought of having “nothing” stopped her. Yet here I am, fearing everything that is not even happening. Fearing something that is not worth it. Fearing what is not real.
And the last person I said sorry to last night— is a woman who worked hard to heal and to be the best version of herself. This is where I cried out and begged for one more chance. A chance to trust me again. A chance to believe in me again.
I said sorry for being inconsiderate. For not giving chances to simple mistakes. I said sorry for getting weary of reasons. Making me deaf to her agony and sorrow.
I said sorry because I wasn’t compassionate enough to help her compose her terrible thoughts. That I was too selfish to believe that she doesn’t need anyone in her life, that she could do it herself.
I said sorry because there were times I didn’t fight for her. I ignored the threats she has been receiving and let her suffer it.
I said sorry because she had to go through depressive nights. To go through unbearable grief.
But then she told me— that there is nothing to be sorry for because I cannot see what’s ahead yet.
That I cannot see yet; how my incompetence was slowly but surely made me a wise person, how the doubts turned into fulfilled dreams because of taking the benefit of it, & how the pain beautifully molded me to be the healing for others.
So, I said sorry, again.
This time, to myself.
For rushing.
Rushing to see.
Rushing to touch.
Rushing to hear.
Rushing to feel.
Rushing to taste.
For hating.
Hating the past.
Hating the unknown.
Hating the current.
I said sorry.
And there, I was forgiven.
I was forgiven by the seven year-old me, by the fourteen year-old me, the future me. And my current self who I didn’t see fighting inside me.
