Forgiveness is not a single act but a matter of constant practice.

Forgiving is a hard thing to do, no matter how often I do it. I fight with it. I want to cling to what’s fair and what’s right, instead of what brings me the most peace; they aren’t always the same thing. Accepting that the best thing for my own peace of mind is not the fairest conclusion is tough, but I’ve had to do it any number of times over the course of my life. No doubt, we all have had to make those decisions.

Even harder, though, is the constant practice of forgiving myself.

Better to live them than regret just dreaming.

I’ve done a lot of supremely stupid things over the years; things that I struggle forgiving myself for. They are things that I’ve thought I’ve made my peace with, only to have them churn up again, which tells me I’m not done forgiving myself.

I’ve spent most of my (long!) adult life as a morbidly obese woman who convinced herself that there weren’t other options, that I was doomed to be fat for the rest of my life. Thinking of how much time I have wasted believing this, how much time I spent in deep depression over it, caught in a body that wouldn’t let me do the things I wanted to do, pains my heart. I wish I could have led a better life, and I find it difficult, now, to forgive myself for not knowing any better at the time.

The problem with not finding that forgiveness is that I have a deep sense of justice. I want to cry that it’s unfair that I’ve been saddled with a body that makes it so tough to lose weight. It’s unfair that the new me should have to deal with the consequences the old me created by complicating my metabolism. Unfairness should be punished, so I punish myself in small ways and make myself feel bad instead of forgiving myself and moving forward.

Every day, I have to forgive myself for those bad days, months, years — decades. Every day, I have to remind myself that this isn’t about fairness; it’s about doing what’s right for me, which means not only doing the things that result in a happier mind and body, but feeding and nurturing the good parts of me, so they continue to overpower the bad.

I know I will always carry the me that once was within me, and if I don’t work on that internal sense of forgiveness, that old me will overcome the new one.

That girl who was fit and stood proudly for a pic with her friends after a long hike on a low mountain, with pig tails and a spreading grin — I’m that girl. But I’m also that girl who spent entire days in bed, unable to exist, barely able to function enough to make a meal or take a shower.

I am both; I carry the seeds of both within me, but neither one is me. My definitions are different. My goals, my days, my dreams are different, and while I need to find it within myself to forgive both of those former iterations, I can never forget the lessons I learned from them and the burdens they carried. I have released those burdens, even if I occasionally need to remind myself.

Today, I forgive myself for not knowing better back in those days, not having the desire to do better, being fearful of change. I need to make it a habit to do this daily for the sake and the preservation of the person I am, now.