The apology I didn’t know I owed myself.

on shame, forgiveness, and learning how to see again

She asked me what I was journaling about, and I told her I was writing about my anxious thoughts.

“What are you anxious about?” she asked.

I paused for a moment, unsure of how much to give away. Or, perhaps, unsure of the real source of my feelings and how to describe them succinctly, in a way that could still feel palatable for a light conversation at the beach on Nantucket on 4th of July.

So I paused for a moment and tried to zoom out. And from a higher vantage point, I could see that maybe what it was, really, was my inability to stay connected to the moment. To what was happening right in front of me.

“I’m having such a hard time locking in,” I said. “It’s felt this way ever since I finished the book. I was head down for so many months that when I finally looked up, it’s like I didn’t know how to see anymore. It’s as though I can see the trees swaying in the wind, and the waves crashing, but they don’t register. They don’t leave an impression. I am the opposite of impressionable.”

I didn’t know if I was making sense to her until she asked me if I had ever heard of the Ho’oponopono prayer.

She told me it was an ancient Hawaiian practice for forgiveness and reconciliation. That it was the process of taking responsibility for one’s own actions, and of doing the work of inner healing.

She began to utter the prayer out loud.

“I’m sorry…

…please forgive me…

…thank you…

…I love you.”

Tears fell down my cheeks at the sound of the first phrase, “I’m sorry, please forgive me.”

And it dawned on me that I hadn’t realized how badly I needed my own apology. And for what? I don’t know. The tyranny of the year I put myself through, the stress, the rejection and criticism I subjected myself to. The ways I disregarded my physical body. I could feel it all in a single moment. And as the tears continued to fall, I noticed that so did hers. Until we were both crying, side by side, on our beach towels, wiping our eyes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about shame recently. Of how it’s followed me around for so much of my life. I don’t know where it even comes from half the time.

Some of it probably isn’t yours, Kylie had said. “It’s passed down from generation to generation. And our job is to heal it.”

I left that day, that island, wondering how.

How to live with less shame when half the time I can’t even trace where it comes from.

Then I remembered the words, “I’m sorry, please forgive me, thank you, I love you.” And they brought me comfort.