The Person We Forget to Forgive

Looking back, I sometimes wonder how I survived some of the decisions I made when I was young.

In my late teens and early twenties, much of what I did felt normal. It seemed to be what young men did—living a little on the wilder side, taking chances, trying to prove something, calling it excitement. No one around me seemed to think there was anything unusual about the senseless risks we took.

The older people did not seem worried. Looking back now, I think they saw it as a rite of passage—boys being boys, something we would grow out of in time. Today, some might call it teenage exuberance.

But some young people paid dearly for that exuberance. Some lost their lives. Others made one decision that changed their own life—or someone else’s—forever. And some never had the chance to say, “I’m sorry,” to the people who were hurt by what they did.

What I needed was not someone simply asking, “Why did you do that?”

I needed someone with more life behind them to help me understand where certain choices could lead. I needed someone to explain that a decision made in a few seconds can carry consequences long after the feeling of excitement is gone.

Young people need to hear that clearly—not only boys, but girls too. One reckless decision can change lives: our own lives, the lives of people we love, and the lives of strangers who may be affected by a choice we thought would have no lasting cost.

Parents can remain instrumental in their children’s lives even after those children are grown and have families of their own. But the ability to offer guidance later is often built much earlier.

A young person is more likely to listen when trust has already been established—when they know a parent can speak honestly without only condemning, can set limits without withdrawing love, and can hear difficult truths without making the child ashamed to come back.

When that kind of trust is missing, a parent’s judgment may feel like control instead of care. By the time a child becomes a teenager or young adult, it can be harder for them to believe that guidance comes from experience and love rather than criticism.

The conversation cannot begin only when danger appears. It has to be built through years of listening, presence, truth, and the willingness to talk about things that are hard to say.

Today, we understand more about the young brain than many people did when I was growing up. Scientists tell us that the prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain that helps us pause, weigh consequences, plan ahead, and control impulses—continues developing into our mid-to-late twenties.

That does not excuse reckless choices. But it helps explain why a young person can feel certain they are invincible, act before thinking, and fail to see the full cost of a risk until it is too late.

When I look back at that young man, I do not want to excuse him. I want to understand him.

He was not yet the person I am today. He did not have the years, losses, perspective, or emotional maturity that would come later. He was working with what he had been taught, what he saw around him, and what he was still trying to learn on his own. Like all young people, he absorbed what was around him, often without knowing it, and sometimes from the very people he least wanted to become. At that age, the people he followed most were often friends who knew no more than he did.

We should be accountable for the harm we cause. But accountability and understanding can live in the same sentence. Our past is made of layers: the teenager trying to belong, the young adult chasing excitement, the person who begins to recognize the consequences, and the person who is still learning now.

To forgive ourselves is not to erase the past or pretend that it did not matter. It is to stop making one chapter the whole story.

Perhaps the question is not only, What did I do?

Perhaps it is also, What did I need to understand then that I understand now?