He was just 17 when it happened.
Newly licensed, driving a back road in Pennsylvania.
Not reckless, just a little too fast, when an Amish buggy appeared suddenly from a hidden side road.

He hit it full on.
A young woman in a floral dress fell from the buggy and lay very, very still.
When he realized she had died, he knew his life would never be the same.

The next day, drowning in remorse, he returned to the Amish community to say how sorry he was.
The woman had only been married a week.

“It was an accident,” said the mourning leader without hesitation. “We forgive you.”

The young man nodded, but his face still held the weight of what he couldn’t release.

Days later, handwritten letters arrived at his home, one after the next.
Each from someone who had known and loved the woman.
Each carrying the same message:
We forgive you.
We forgive you.
We forgive you.

The note from the leader added, “Don’t take this burden of guilt upon you; that will only ruin your life.”

He returned every year to dine with the community as they commemorated her life.
And, years later, on his wedding day, the entire Amish community came to bless his marriage.

He had been right: his life would never be the same.
Because the power of forgiveness had touched it.

That story was shared by my pastor one Easter.
The young man was his best friend.
And that moment—those three words—shaped everything that followed.

Forgiveness on the giving end

But I’ve seen forgiveness work its quiet magic from the other side, too.
The side where you’re not receiving it—you’re the one offering it.

Let me tell you about Rob.

Rob was a coach and consultant in the medical field, helping practitioners step into leadership as CEOs of their own practices.
He was brilliant at what he did, but tangled in a toxic business partnership.

His partner had the money, but also deep addiction issues.
Controlling. Erratic. Unpredictable.
One Thanksgiving, the partner demanded Rob leave his family to work.

That was the final straw.
Rob walked away, leaving behind years of effort and a significant financial investment.

He started over. Slowly. Steadily.
But when he tried to scale his business, something kept holding him back.

He needed a partner again, but he didn’t trust himself to choose wisely.

There was a residue.
A whisper of resentment saying, “Don’t forget what happened. Holding on will keep you safe.”

That’s when we started working together.

I introduced Rob to a Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and emotional clearing called Ho’oponopono.
At the heart of this tradition are four deceptively simple, yet deeply transformative phrases:

1. “I’m sorry.”

This is the step of acknowledgment. You’re taking responsibility—not for causing harm directly, but for the disharmony showing up in your world. It’s the recognition that something within you may be participating in the pattern.

2. “Please forgive me.”

This is where humility enters. You’re not asking forgiveness from another person, but from the Divine, your higher self, or from the deeper parts of you that have been tangled in fear or pain.

3. “Thank you.”

This phrase begins the shift. It’s gratitude for the healing already underway, for the wisdom in the experience, for the energy that’s being released.

4. “I love you.”

This is the return to wholeness. Love is not the outcome—it’s the medicine. The act of saying this reattaches you to the source of peace that lives underneath all confusion and judgment.

These four steps aren’t about fixing others.
They’re about cleaning the lens through which you see.
Clearing the static inside you, so clarity and peace can return.

Rob didn’t flinch. He reflected quietly on the ways he had enabled dysfunction out of fear and habit.

And something shifted.

Not long after, Rob was interviewed on a podcast.
After the episode, the host reached out with a business idea. They talked. They built. And within a few months, Rob was on track to hit one million dollars in annual revenue.

The partnership? A dream.
Built on trust. Shared values. Mutual respect.

Forgiveness didn’t just clear the past.
It opened the future.

And Rob reminded me of this:

Letting go is not surrender.
It’s sovereignty.

It’s not forgetting.
It’s remembering who you are when you’re no longer dragging the past behind you.

If there’s something in you that still feels heavy—
a grudge, a regret, a wound that lingers quietly—
know this:

You don’t have to carry it forever.
And you don’t have to release it all at once.
But you can start.

With a breath.
With a sentence.
With a single moment of letting go.