We\u2019ve probably all heard\u2014or used\u2014the saying so many times that its implications aren\u2019t even on our radar, although they deserve a closer look. Think about it: \u201cI forgive, but I don\u2019t forget\u201d is decidedly different from saying, \u201cI forgive.\u201d The former has an edge to it, an emotional sharpness. But why?<\/p>\n
For starters, what exactly are we adding with \u201cbut I don\u2019t forget\u201d? We can safely assume the person isn\u2019t making a literal statement about their ability to remember. Of course they remember, so why the need to say it?<\/p>\n
Part of it sounds like a cautionary tale: I may be forgiving you, but what happened has changed something. There may be consequences if my trust is broken again, and I\u2019ve learned from this experience and intend to remember what I learned.<\/p>\n
There is also a layer of vulnerability to the statement. If someone has broken our trust, forgiveness<\/a> doesn\u2019t necessarily mean that the trust comes right along with it. In fact, the \u201cI don\u2019t forget\u201d part may be less about memory<\/a> and more about acknowledging that something has changed, perhaps permanently. We may forgive someone and still not trust them in quite the same way again.<\/p>\n Which raises a more interesting question: When we say, \u201cI forgive, but I don\u2019t forget,\u201d are we describing forgiveness, or are we acknowledging just how difficult forgiveness can actually be?<\/p>\n Why not be more direct and say, \u201cI can try to forgive, but I can\u2019t guarantee that I will\u201d? And does this even matter, or are we splitting hairs over a silly saying?<\/p>\n It matters because communication is about transparency and awareness\u2014not only with other people, but with ourselves. If someone believes forgiveness is an achievable endpoint, something we decide to do and then successfully complete, they may become frustrated when the issue keeps rearing its unforgiving little head: I\u2019ve forgiven this person, right? Why can\u2019t I get over this? What\u2019s the matter with me?<\/p>\n Forgiveness itself has been conceptualized as a process (Freedman & Enright, 2020), which makes me wonder whether there\u2019s something to be learned from the way we think about grief<\/a>. We wouldn\u2019t assume that someone had failed at grieving because a reminder brought the sadness back months later. Why, then, assume we\u2019ve failed at forgiveness when an old hurt resurfaces?<\/p>\n This makes sense, since the alternative\u2014thinking of forgiveness as all-or-nothing\u2014can create a lot of pressure for someone who has presumably already been wronged. Now they\u2019re left navigating the incident itself while also feeling responsible for forgiving it in a timely and complete manner.<\/p>\n So where does this expectation come from? There are certainly good reasons why forgiveness is held in such high regard. Research has associated interpersonal forgiveness with greater psychological well-being (Bono et al., 2008), not to mention everyday mantras that advise us against letting other people live \u201crent-free\u201d in our heads while we\u2019re stuck paying the mortgage.<\/p>\n Interestingly, though, recent research suggests there may be another side to the story. In a series of three studies, Quinney and colleagues (2026) examined what happened when people offered forgiveness, explicitly refused to forgive, or took no action. Compared with doing nothing, refusing forgiveness was associated with a stronger sense that people were acting in accordance with their own values and, in some cases, a greater sense of power. These experiences, in turn, were linked with feeling better about themselves in the moment.<\/p>\n This isn\u2019t to suggest that refusing to forgive is somehow better. But maybe there\u2019s something to be said for honestly admitting, \u201cI\u2019m not ready to forgive you,\u201d rather than saying we forgive because we think we should. And refusing to forgive isn\u2019t necessarily the same thing as holding a grudge or endlessly stewing over what happened\u2014a distinction the researchers make as well (Quinney et al., 2026). Whether there are longer-term benefits to refusing forgiveness is still unclear.<\/p>\n Forgiveness Essential Reads<\/p>\n So what can we do when we want to forgive and forget\u2014or heck, we just want to forgive\u2014but find ourselves still paying that monthly mortgage?<\/p>\n 1. Give yourself some time.<\/p>\n If you\u2019re still bothered by what happened, maybe the better question isn\u2019t, \u201cWhy haven\u2019t I forgiven this person yet?\u201d but instead, \u201cWhy does this still bother me?\u201d Maybe there\u2019s still some anger<\/a>, hurt, a lack of trust\u2014and whatever those lingering feelings are, telling yourself that you\u2019ve forgiven someone doesn\u2019t necessarily make them disappear.<\/p>\n 2. And give the other person some time, too.<\/p>\n It\u2019s easy to think that once we\u2019ve apologized\u2014and especially if we\u2019ve apologized sincerely\u2014the other person should meet us somewhere on the other side. But an apology and forgiveness aren\u2019t a transaction. We control the apology, but we can\u2019t control what someone else does with it, or how long it takes them to get there.<\/p>\n 3. Maybe remembering isn\u2019t the problem.<\/p>\n