I Sentence Myself to Death

 

“To Forgiveness. To Healing. To Living.”

Dear Readers,

The words echoed in my mind, a silent declaration I hadn’t realized I’d been making every day. It wasn’t a dramatic proclamation, nor one born out of despair, but a quiet, consistent erosion of a death by a thousand self-inflicted cuts.

I sentenced myself to death every time I doubted my worth, letting the voices of others outweigh my own. Every time I held back from chasing a dream, convincing myself it was too late or I wasn’t good enough. Every time I apologized for taking up space, for being human, for existing.

The courtroom of my mind was relentless, with me as the accused, the prosecutor, the judge, and the jury. Evidence was brought forward with precision: mistakes from years ago, opportunities missed, words said in anger, and moments of weakness. The verdict was always the same guilty.

I sentenced myself to death when I carried the weight of guilt that wasn’t mine to bear. When I replayed the past, wishing I could rewrite the moments when I wasn’t enough for the people I loved. My mother, and my father they had seen my best and my worst, and I often wondered: did I fail them?

I sentenced myself to death every time I let my health deteriorate, ignoring the signals my body sent in its quiet plea for care. I let the pain fester, both physical and emotional, until it felt like a part of me. The niche in my hometown that held my parents’ remains was beyond my reach now, and even the act of not visiting felt like another failure, another nail in the coffin of self-condemnation.

But here’s the irony: I’m still here. Despite the sentence, despite the verdict, despite the imaginary gallows I’ve built for myself, life continues. And with it, a quiet realization emerges perhaps it’s time for a retrial.

What if the evidence isn’t as damning as I thought? What if my mistakes were lessons, my missed opportunities a redirection, my imperfections a testament to being human? My parents wouldn’t have wanted this a life spent punishing myself for not being perfect.

So, I stand in the courtroom once more, but this time, I take off the judge’s robe. I silence the prosecutor and dismiss the jury. I approach the stand not as the accused, but as someone seeking understanding.

“I sentence myself,” I say softly, “To Forgiveness. To Healing. To Living.”

The courtroom fades, the chains loosen, and for the first time in a long time, I feel the weight lift. I may not be able to visit my parents’ niche, but I carry them with me in my heart, in my memories, and in the way I strive to honor their love by being kinder to myself.

Because I deserve that. And they would want that for me, too.

I Forgive Myself…

Jacob M