This book would have little value if I skipped over two of the most important actions for maintaining long-term mental and emotional health: forgiveness and gratitude. These are not abstract ideas—they are verbs. Practices. Tools. I’m not a preacher, and this isn’t about faith or scoring spiritual points for a life beyond this one. But if “heaven” is a metaphor for a calm nervous system and peace of mind, then forgiveness and gratitude are the keys to achieving heaven right now.
Forgiveness, at its core, is much more relaxing than holding onto anger, pain, betrayal, or a thirst for revenge. When we say, “I can’t forgive,” what we often mean is: “I don’t know how,” or “I’m unwilling.” That’s understandable—many people believe that holding onto resentment is part of the healing process. But the opposite is true: without forgiveness, emotional healing stalls. Resentments act like poison in the body and mind, quietly reinforcing chronic anxiety, stress, and inflammation.
Our self-esteem—our internal diagnostic system—suffers tremendously when we’re emotionally wounded. Self-esteem isn’t just about how we feel about ourselves. It’s a real-time report card from our nervous system, influenced by our physical health, our thoughts, our chemistry, and our environment. A stubbed toe or a betrayal from a loved one both register as drops in self-worth because they interrupt our sense of safety and control. Every unhealed emotional injury keeps our nervous system leaning into fight-or-flight mode. And we can’t thrive there—we age faster, get sicker, and lose clarity.
The human nervous system was brilliantly designed to respond to danger with a surge of hormones—adrenaline, cortisol, norepinephrine—that prepare us to fight or flee. But nature also intended us to return to a state of peace. That’s the purpose of the parasympathetic nervous system. Chronic anger and emotional injury, however, block that return. Like a crocodile that dies from a prolonged adrenaline dump, our own systems falter under the constant pressure of unprocessed resentment. We don’t die immediately—but we suffer deeply.
Resentment is addictive. It produces a sense of righteousness and adrenaline that can feel powerful—especially to someone with wounded self-esteem. But it’s also corrosive. It clouds our judgment, disconnects us from the present, and keeps us locked in a distorted version of the past. Every time we relive a betrayal in our minds, we fire up the same stress response as if it’s happening again. This keeps us inflamed—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
Forgiveness is not forgetting. It’s not approval of the offense. It’s a release of the energy trapped in our primal fears: abandonment, death, humiliation, deprivation. These fears—left unregulated—are the very essence of anxiety. When we begin to forgive, we send a message to the nervous system that we’re no longer in danger. Forgiveness becomes an act of self-preservation, not a favor to the offender.
My practice is this: when I feel resentment rising, I sit in meditation and ask the highest part of my consciousness to show me the role I’ve played in the hurt—or the deeper origin of the pain. I ask: “Is this wound tied to something old?” Often, I trace it back to childhood, to a betrayal I couldn’t process at age seven. It stayed with me, hidden in the basement of my nervous system, waiting for a new character to bring it to life again. That’s when I begin the real work—not with blame, but with curiosity and humility.
Forgiveness is hardest when the wound is deep. The offender may have insulted your identity, broken sacred agreements, harmed people you love, or violated your trust. These are not trivial injuries. But holding onto them doesn't punish the offender—it punishes you. The mind thinks it’s protecting itself by replaying the offense, but it’s actually reinforcing the trauma. The way out is not denial, but willingness: I am willing to forgive. Even if it feels impossible, say it aloud. Practice it. Teach it to yourself by offering it to others.
Here’s how I do it: I breathe and say, “I forgive.” Then I speak the truth: “You hurt me. You made me feel helpless. You were confused. You were afraid. You were unkind. You were human.” Sometimes I go further: “You violated my people. You insulted my land. You took from me what you had no right to take.” And then: “I forgive you—not for your sake, but for mine.” Because only through forgiveness do we reclaim our peace, presence, and power.
Gratitude works in the same frequency. It shifts our focus from lack to abundance, from fear to love. Together, forgiveness and gratitude downregulate the sympathetic nervous system and bring us back to calm. They create the internal space for presence, love, and clarity. These are not optional practices for people in recovery—they are essential.
If you’re still holding onto resentment, you’re still holding onto the addiction of anxiety. Let it go. Not overnight, not perfectly—but intentionally. Forgiveness doesn’t mean you trust the offender again. It means you trust yourself enough to stop carrying the pain. That’s when the real healing begins.