I used to believe that closure was a door someone else had to open for me.
That healing meant understanding why — why they did it, why they said it, why it ended that way.
That the peace I was searching for lived somewhere in their explanation.
But the older I get, the more I realize: closure doesn’t come from answers. It comes from acceptance.
Closure is a myth we create to make loss feel logical. It’s the illusion that if we could just make sense of the pain, it would hurt less. But pain isn’t a math problem. It’s a mirror.
The truth is, some people will never apologize — not because they don’t know they hurt you, but because acknowledging it would force them to meet a version of themselves they aren’t ready to face.
And sometimes, we’re the same way. Sometimes, the apology we want from others is the one we haven’t given to ourselves.
I don’t need an apology anymore.
Not because I don’t deserve one — but because my healing no longer depends on someone else’s awakening.
I’ve learned that forgiveness isn’t about reconciliation. It’s about release.
It’s choosing not to carry the weight of someone else’s unhealed soul.
It’s understanding that everyone — even the ones who hurt you — are operating from their own storm, their own confusion, their own ache.
When you really sit with that, you start to see that nobody is purely good or bad. We’re all just reflections of what we’ve survived. And maybe that’s why closure isn’t something we get — it’s something we give ourselves.
Because peace doesn’t come from their understanding.
Peace comes from your surrender.
The apology I’ll never get no longer belongs to me.
It belongs to the person I once was — the one who thought love had to be explained, that pain had to be justified, that healing had to be witnessed.
But healing is quiet. It’s internal. It’s sacred.
It’s waking up one day and realizing:
I don’t need the apology.
I don’t need the closure.
I just need to remember that I survived without it.
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