I’ve always been quick to forgive. Painfully quick. Embarrassingly quick. Like “you just ruined my week and I’m still asking if you need anything from the store” quick.
Forgiveness has been my party trick since I was old enough to have my feelings hurt and still show up with snacks. I’ve always wanted to believe the best in people, even when the worst was right in front of me wearing a familiar smile.
So I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that I still don’t want to ruin him. Even after everything.
Even after the lies. Even after the betrayal that felt so theatrical, it should’ve come with a soundtrack and a dramatic lighting cue.
Even after the silence that followed—louder than any apology that never came.
I could tell the whole story. I could list the details, name the names and roll out the timeline like a red carpet leading to the world’s most chaotic premiere. And if I did? People would be on my side.
They already are.
Everyone I know has looked me in the eyes and said some version of, “Destroy him.”
Which, in their defense, is probably fair.
But I’ve never been one for popular opinion. I follow my heart.
And it’s not as if I don’t have tea, the timeline and enough emotional damage to fund three Taylor Swift albums.
But I haven’t burned the bridge. I haven’t exposed him, haven’t told the whole story. Because I love him.
And I hate that. I hate how I still care. I hate how he let the opinions of people who don’t even know me become louder than what he saw with his own eyes. I hate how he decided I was the problem just because it was easier than holding a mirror up to himself. How he ran back to them the second it was all over.
But most of all, I hate how he hurt me and still made me feel like I was the one who needed to apologize.
He got quiet. He let me sit with the guilt of his actions. He made me question everything I did, while he never once looked inward and asked,
Why did I do that to someone who showed up for me, over and over again, someone who fought for me?
So here it is—my confession. My truth.
I forgive him.
Despite the lies. Despite the betrayal. Despite the way he let people whisper about me while he said nothing. Despite how he painted me as the villain when I was the one picking up the pieces.
I forgive him.
And I’m sorry if that makes me weak, or soft, or stupid. But I’m not going to apologize for having a heart that chooses healing over hate.
Because I have grown. I’ve grown past the version of me who needed to be believed. Who needed to be defended. Who needed someone else to validate her pain.
And him? I hope he looks deep into himself and asks why.
Why he let it happen. Why he thought it was okay to betray someone who was trying to be nothing but good to him.
No, I wasn’t perfect. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve messed up. I’ve been messy (this column is quite literally called Confessions of a Hot Mess) But I’ve always tried to do right by people. I’ve always led with heart—even when it cost me.
So why was he so quick to believe the opinions of people who don’t even know me? People who knew my name and this column and thought that was enough. People who never sat across from me, who never saw the shaking hands or the breaking voice.
And still, he ignored the girl who bared her soul to him. The girl who looked into his eyes. Who looked up to him. He looked away from the one who told the truth, and decided that they were right. Maybe because their version of me was easier to betray.
Because I know who I am. And I’m not someone who holds grudges. I’m not someone who gets even. I’m someone who turns pain into paragraphs, confusion into confessions, and heartbreak into healing.
I am not going to apologize for wearing my heart on my sleeve even if that gives people a door to sit there and use it against me.
This column has always been about that—being real, being raw and helping people grow through my own chaos.
And maybe I could tell the full story. Maybe I should.
But honestly? That’s not the legacy I want.
I don’t want to be remembered for how well I could ruin him. I want to be remembered for how well I rose—even when it would’ve been easier to stay bitter.
Because the truth is—I would’ve given him the world. Not the shiny, surface kind. The real kind. The kind you build with someone, slowly, carefully, piece by piece. I would’ve made space for all the versions of him—the loud, the quiet, the messy, the unsure.
And he threw that away like it meant nothing.
Like I meant nothing.
And maybe he’ll never understand the kind of love he lost.
But I hope one day, when everything feels quiet and no one is looking for him the way I did,
he remembers the girl who would’ve given him everything —
and regrets not holding on.
And I hope, if nothing else, he asks himself why he let someone like that slip away.
Even when I’m crying in my dad’s office at work, broken open and humiliated and exhausted from trying to make sense of it all, he just points to my chest.
“It’s because of the way you are,” he says.
And I know he means it as a compliment. That my softness isn’t a flaw. That my ability to love deeply and forgive completely isn’t something to be ashamed of.
Because forgiveness doesn’t just set them free—it sets you free. It doesn’t make you small. It makes you strong. And if you’ve ever been in that place—heart cracked open, pride shattered, replaying what happened over and over again—just know this: you don’t have to stay angry to prove you were wronged.
You don’t have to turn hard just because someone else chose to be careless with your softness.
Forgiveness won’t erase what they did, but it will build you back up in ways resentment never could.
So no, I won’t tell the whole story. Not because I can’t—but because I don’t need to.
I loved him. I forgave him. And maybe someday, he’ll figure out why he needed me to teach him what grace looks like.
But even if he doesn’t, I’ll be okay. Because I know who I am.
And that’s what I’m holding on to.
Not the hurt.
Not the ending.
Just the grace.
Colossians 3:13
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Confessions of a Hot Mess is the personal work of Emily Hess. The opinions expressed in this column, as well as those published in The Nevada Sagebrush, are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Sagebrush or its staff.
