"Forgiving the Past, Trusting the Journey"

What does it mean to forgive — not after the pain has faded, but while the wounds are still fresh and the story is still unfolding?

Forgiveness Without Forgetting

Parenting a struggling teenager is often a journey through wounds — some visible, many invisible. These wounds take many forms: the sharp words spoken in anger, the slammed doors, the long nights spent lying awake, wondering whether you said too much or not enough. There are moments when your child’s pain overflows and ends up hurting you, and there are moments when your own mistakes — often made with love and the best intentions — leave unintended scars.

It’s easy to believe that forgiveness only comes after a dramatic resolution: a heartfelt apology, a change in behavior, a moment of clarity that makes everything fall into place. But in truth, real forgiveness is quieter — and far more difficult. It often begins while the wounds are still fresh, while the narrative is still unfolding, and while the future remains uncertain.

Forgiveness is frequently misunderstood. It is not about condoning the pain, nor is it about minimizing the hurt or pretending it never mattered. It is not about excusing or forgetting. Rather, forgiveness is the sacred act of choosing to release — without erasing — what has happened. It is a deliberate decision to stop allowing past wounds to dictate the direction of the future.

This lesson is woven deeply into the Torah. After the sin of the Golden Calf — one of the most devastating betrayals in Jewish history — Hashem does not sever His relationship with the people. Instead, He commands Moshe to carve a second set of Luchot, the Tablets of the Covenant. The betrayal was fresh. The pain had not yet faded. And yet, the process of rebuilding began. These second Tablets, born out of brokenness and the choice to forgive, became even more sacred than the first.

Forgiveness does not require forgetting. It begins while the heart is still raw, while the cracks are still visible. In parenting, forgiveness does not mean pretending the pain never happened or denying the impact of our children’s choices — or our own. It requires something far more courageous: the willingness to look at the past with clarity and compassion, to acknowledge that we acted based on what we knew then, who we were then, and the emotional weight we were carrying.

This is not a way of avoiding responsibility. In fact, it is the opposite. Forgiveness is the act of taking full ownership without drowning in guilt. It is the strength to look at our imperfect parenting and say honestly, “It was not my fault. But it is — and always will be — my responsibility.”

Forgiveness is not a dismissal of pain. It is a refusal to remain imprisoned by it. It gives us the space to honor the reality of what was, while still allowing us to imagine and work toward a better future. And perhaps most important of all, forgiveness begins not with our children — but with ourselves. Healing within our families and homes often begins the moment we find the courage to forgive the person we once were.

Section 1: Forgiveness is Not Erasure — It is Acceptance

Forgiveness is not about pretending the past never happened. It is about seeing the cracks — and still choosing to build. In Hilchot Teshuvah, the Rambam teaches a profound truth about healing and growth. When he outlines the steps of repentance, he does not ask us to forget our past mistakes. Instead, he calls upon us to recognize them, to confess them, and to name them aloud. Only then can the process of genuine repair begin. Healing does not begin with erasure; it begins with full, honest acknowledgment.

We do not grow by pretending we never stumbled. We grow by remembering exactly where we fell — and learning how to walk differently. The Torah reinforces this lesson through Midrash Tanchuma, Terumah 8. After the sin of the Golden Calf, Hashem commands the Jewish people to build the Mishkan, the sacred Tabernacle. But the Midrash reveals something transformative: Hashem did not wait until the people became perfect before choosing to dwell among them. He placed His Presence among a nation still carrying the scars of their mistakes.

Forgiveness, then, is not reserved for the flawless. It is a divine act — a choice to dwell, to stay connected, even in the presence of imperfection. And this holds especially true in parenting. Forgiving ourselves is not about rewriting our story in softer ink. It is about standing with honesty before the full truth and saying: “I made choices — sometimes choices that caused hurt — based on what I knew then, who I was then, and the tools I had available to me then.”

True forgiveness honors the reality of our struggles: the exhaustion, the fear, the overwhelming love that sometimes came out wrong. Acceptance is not passivity. It is active, sacred work. It means allowing ourselves to be human — without using that humanity as an excuse to stop striving. And even once forgiveness is chosen, the journey does not suddenly become linear. Old wounds may reopen. Anger or guilt may resurface. Forgiveness is not a single event. It is an ongoing practice — a conscious decision, again and again, to live in compassion rather than captivity.

Forgiveness does not erase the wound. It allows the wound to heal. It becomes the choice to let the scar remain — not as a mark of failure, but as a symbol of growth. And forgiveness is not limited to the actions we regret. It extends deeper, into the very identities that pain can try to forge within us. Guilt tells us, “I did something wrong.” But shame whispers something more insidious: “I am something wrong.” As Dr. Brené Brown, a leading researcher on vulnerability, writes, “Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change” (I Thought It Was Just Me, 2007). True forgiveness dissolves that corrosion by affirming our worthiness even in moments of failure.

True forgiveness dissolves that shame. It reminds us that while we may have stumbled, our essence — like Hashem’s love — was never broken. We are not irredeemable. We are still, and always, worthy of healing, of hope, and of connection. And when we forgive in this way, we do more than make peace with our past. We prepare the ground to honor our future.

Section 2: It Is Not My Fault — But It Is My Responsibility

One of the hardest truths for any parent — especially the parent of a struggling teen — is coming to terms with the reality that not everything was ever fully in our control. We can do so many things right, we can offer unconditional love, endless prayers, sleepless nights, and boundless effort — and still watch our child wander down painful paths we never would have chosen for them. Sometimes, despite all we give, they still carry wounds, still make choices that bring heartbreak.

In the wake of that pain, it's natural to fall into one of two emotional traps: blame or despair. Blame convinces us that it’s someone else’s fault. Despair convinces us that it’s all our fault. But there is a deeper and more faithful path — one that neither avoids responsibility nor is crushed by it. It is the ability to say: it may not be my fault, but it is still my responsibility.

The Torah models this kind of leadership through Moshe Rabbeinu. In Sefer Bamidbar, after decades of pressure, fatigue, and emotional strain, Moshe strikes the rock instead of speaking to it, as Hashem commanded. Despite all he had done, despite his love for the people, Hashem still holds him accountable. Not because Moshe was wicked. Not because his intentions weren’t sincere. But because in moments of leadership — and parenting is a sacred form of leadership — intention does not erase impact.

Moshe’s consequence was not a punishment born of divine cruelty. It was a lesson etched into the heart of the Torah: being responsible does not mean being perfect. It means carrying the weight of what has happened, even when it is heavy. It means choosing growth instead of self-blame. And Moshe, in his humility, accepts that path. Though he is told he will not enter the Land, he continues to lead, to love, and to support the people until his final breath.

And even more than that — Moshe continues to pray. The Torah tells us, "ואתחנן אל ה' בעת ההיא לאמר" — "And I pleaded with Hashem at that time, saying..." (Devarim 3:23). Chazal teach that Moshe offered 515 prayers before Hashem ultimately told him to stop (Devarim 3:26). But Moshe did not pray out of denial. He prayed because he refused to sever the connection. His tefillah was not only a plea for a different outcome; it was an act of loyalty, of faith, and of unbreakable love.

So too in parenting. Taking responsibility does not mean we stop hoping or stop praying. It means we begin to pray not only for specific outcomes, but for connection — with Hashem, with our children, and with the parts of ourselves that still believe in possibility. Responsibility is not about living in regret. It is about living with purpose. It is standing in the present and saying, “I did what I could. I made mistakes. And now I choose to learn. I choose to love better.”

This mirrors a powerful teaching from Rav Kook, who writes in Orot HaTeshuvah that Teshuvah is not merely about fixing failure. At its deepest level, Teshuvah is the revelation of the inner light that has always existed within us — a light buried beneath the dust and pain of our human experience. The Rambam echoes this as well, reminding us that Teshuvah is not a one-time event. It unfolds in stages — slowly, painfully at times — but always moving forward, always reaching toward greater clarity, compassion, and truth.

Our mistakes do not define us. They call us to uncover the deeper goodness that was there all along — the capacity for love, healing, and resilience that can be reclaimed, no matter how far we feel we’ve fallen. When we forgive ourselves, we are not letting ourselves off the hook. We are choosing to embrace our humanity, and to recommit to parenting with humility, with open eyes, and with compassion — not only for our child, but for ourselves.

Responsibility is not a verdict. It is an invitation. An invitation to grow alongside our children — not ahead of them, not beneath them — but with them, as fellow travelers on the long, unfinished road of healing.

Section 3: Forgiveness as a Path to Growth, Not Stagnation

Forgiveness is often misunderstood as a form of resignation — as if to forgive means to lower our expectations, to settle for less, or to stop trying altogether. But real forgiveness, the kind rooted in courage and truth, is anything but passive. It is one of the most powerful acts of inner strength a person can make. Forgiveness clears away the emotional debris of guilt and shame, and in doing so, it creates space for something new to grow.

When we forgive ourselves for the moments we fell short, we are not giving up. We are granting ourselves permission to move forward. We are choosing not to stay trapped in a mental loop of “what if” or “if only,” and instead, we step into the only space where real change can take root: the present moment.

This idea is central to the teachings of the Baal Shem Tov, who taught that sometimes a yeridah — a descent — is necessary for an aliyah — an ascent. The fall is not the end of the journey; it is part of the journey. The missteps, regrets, and heartbreaks we carry are not signs that we’ve wandered off the path — they are the path. Each moment of brokenness carries the potential to lead us somewhere deeper and truer.

The Talmud affirms this truth in the statement: “In the place where ba’alei teshuvah (those who return) stand, even the completely righteous cannot stand” (Berachot 34b). Those who have stumbled and risen again, who have faced their brokenness and found the courage to start over, occupy a place of spiritual depth that those untouched by failure cannot reach. It is not despite their struggles that they rise higher — it is because of them.

The very cracks we tried so hard to conceal become vessels. They are the openings through which compassion flows more freely, strength softens into empathy, and wisdom deepens through real-life experience. Today’s psychologists echo this ancient wisdom. Research consistently shows that self-forgiveness — when done honestly and responsibly — leads to greater resilience, improved emotional regulation, and healthier relationships. Psychologist Dr. Kristin Neff emphasizes that self-compassion is not self-indulgence — it is the courage to meet our flaws with gentleness, creating the emotional safety needed for change (Self-Compassion, 2011).

For parents, this is a vital truth. Self-forgiveness liberates us from parenting out of fear or control. It shifts us into a place of connection, of grounded hope, where we can respond to our children with clarity and compassion rather than guilt or panic. Forgiveness is not the end of growth — it is what makes growth possible. It doesn’t erase the past; it redeems it. It gives us the ability to weave even our pain into a new story — one that is stronger, deeper, and more compassionate than what we had originally imagined.

When we release ourselves from the chains of self-condemnation, we free our hearts to show up again — not because we’ve never been broken, but because we’ve been broken and healed. That healing — often unseen and slow — becomes the soil from which new trust, love, and possibility can begin to grow.

Section 4: Trusting the Journey We Cannot Control

Parenting demands more than action; it demands surrender. At some point — especially for those raising a struggling child — we reach a moment that asks something far harder than holding on. We are asked to let go. Not of our love, not of our presence, but of the illusion that we can control the outcome.

The Gemara teaches a truth that every parent must ultimately confront: “הכל בידי שמים חוץ מיראת שמים” — “Everything is in the hands of Heaven except the fear of Heaven” (Berachot 33b). Rashi explains that a person’s health, wealth, intelligence, and life circumstances are all governed by Hashem. But the deepest stirrings of a soul — its awe of Heaven, its desire for good — remain in the hands of the individual alone.

Even Moshe Rabbeinu, the greatest teacher and shepherd of the Jewish people, could not force faith into the hearts of his followers. He could teach, he could plead, he could pray — but he could not choose for them. Neither can we. As parents, we can pour out our tefillot, offer limitless compassion, and model lives of resilience and hope. We can create an environment that supports growth. We can walk beside our children with fierce love and tender faith. But ultimately, their souls — their journeys — belong to them, and to Hashem.

Forgiveness, then, is not just about letting go of past mistakes. It is also about forgiving the story we cannot yet finish. It asks us to release the tightly held vision of how we imagined their lives would unfold — the version of their journey we believed was necessary for joy. It asks us to surrender not just control, but the expectation that redemption must come wrapped in the forms we once idolized: a certain school, a certain kind of marriage, a particular image of religious observance.

True trust is the belief that even if the path looks nothing like we once envisioned, a deeper good is still unfolding. That goodness is not built from our fantasies, but from Hashem’s endless compassion. It is the willingness to release our desperate need for immediate transformation — and instead trust that even if we cannot yet see the destination, even if the struggle continues, Hashem is holding their journey with infinite tenderness.

Forgiveness also calls upon us to do something quieter, and far more difficult: to grieve the dream that did not come to be. It asks us to face, without bitterness, the loss of the future we once imagined for our child. And still, in the same breath, to continue loving the reality that is unfolding. This grief is not born of despair, but of enduring love — a sacred mourning that honors the depth of our care.

Forgiveness means trusting that our love is never wasted, our prayers never in vain, our tears never unseen. All of it is woven into a story deeper than what our eyes can perceive. We are not parenting alone. The same Hashem who breathed a soul into our child continues to breathe life into them, moment by moment. He walks beside them in their wanderings. He whispers to them in their silence. He plants seeds we may not see bloom until much later — or perhaps only in the hidden gardens of eternity.

And you — the parent — you still matter. Your love matters. Your prayers matter. Your steady presence, even when it feels invisible, becomes part of the foundation your child may one day stand upon.

Our task is not to perfect the journey. Our task is to keep showing up: with love, with humility, with prayer — and with the quiet, stubborn faith that even now, even here, redemption is unfolding. And it is from that place of surrender, that place of deep trust, that a new kind of healing begins — not just for our children, but within our own hearts.

Conclusion: The Healing Begins With You

Forgiveness is not something we extend because the pain has faded. It is something we choose because we are willing to love through the pain. Parenting a teen at risk demands a level of emotional bravery that few will ever truly understand. It requires us to hold both love and loss in the same hand — to accept the past without erasing it, to carry responsibility without drowning in guilt, and perhaps most courageously of all, to forgive not only the child who is struggling, but the parent we once were.

Self-forgiveness is not a sign of weakness. It is an act of sacred humility. It is the ability to stand before the truth of our imperfections and say, “I did not always know. I did not always choose well. But I choose now — to learn, to love, and to keep building.” This is not just a parenting strategy; it is the very fabric of our relationship with Hashem.

When Moshe Rabbeinu pleads with Hashem for forgiveness after the sin of the Golden Calf, Hashem responds not with rejection, but with revelation. He discloses the Yud Gimmel Middot — the Thirteen Attributes of Mercy: Rachum v’Chanun (compassionate and gracious), Erech Apayim (slow to anger), and Rav Chesed (abundant in kindness). These are not divine rewards for human perfection. They are expressions of an eternal love that chooses connection over judgment, presence over perfection.

When we dare to forgive ourselves, we mirror that Divine love within our own homes. We create a model of being that quietly affirms: “You are not loved because you are flawless. You are loved because you are mine.” Forgiveness, according to the Torah’s deepest wisdom, is not earned by flawlessness. It is given because the relationship itself is holy.

And it is in this quiet, consistent choice — to forgive, to stay, to keep showing up — that true healing begins. Because when we forgive ourselves, we liberate our hearts. We allow them to return, again and again, with deeper compassion, gentler strength, and a love no longer bound to the wounds of yesterday.

In doing so, we begin to plant seeds — not only of healing, but of transformation. These seeds may sprout slowly, imperceptibly at first. But in time, they can grow into trees of resilience, of shelter, and of enduring hope.

So may we find the courage to carry our responsibility with compassion. May we forgive — not because the pain was small, but because the love is great. And through that healing, may we become the steady, sacred ground upon which our children can slowly, bravely, and faithfully build a future filled with hope.

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Yaakov Lazar

Executive Director, Kol Haneshamot