Why Forgiving Someone Who Betrayed You Feels Impossible (And Why God Still Calls Us To Do It)
What a near-fatal moment taught me about forgiveness.
So… let me start with something you already know:
Forgiving real betrayal feels impossible.
And, there are certain nights you wish your memory would misplace.
Mine hasn’t.
The night of the wreck still sits with me — like a cold breath that never really leaves your lungs. It wasn’t supposed to be an important night. I wasn’t driving or doing anything wild or reckless.
I was just… living the same Friday I’d lived a hundred times before.
Work.
Rain.
Beer.
Cards.
Cigarettes.
Laughing with my brother.
Kali coming over. (My beautiful and INCREDIBLE wife)
Life moving along like it always had.
If you had told me that night would change everything — I mean everything — I probably would’ve laughed, cracked open another beer, and dealt the next card.
That’s the thing about normal nights.
They don’t warn you when they’re about to flip your whole life upside down.
Why Forgiveness Feels So Hard
Let’s be honest — pretending forgiveness is easy doesn’t help anybody. When someone betrays you, something inside shifts:
Trust cracks
Security shakes
Your memory becomes a replay button you can’t turn off
Your heart goes into “never again” mode
And while everyone else keeps living their lives, you’re stuck in a loop, trying to figure out why the pain still feels fresh months or even years later.
It’s strange — betrayal echoes….and it follows you.
C.S. Lewis once said:
“To be a Christian means to forgive the inexcusable, because God has forgiven the inexcusable in you.”
And that hits different when you’re the one who was hurt.
People say, “Just give it to God,” but they never explain what that actually looks like when your chest still tightens at the thought of them.
I’ve been there. Here’s my story.
(U of L Hospital, circa January 2020)
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Before the Wreck — The Life I Thought I Controlled
Back then I worked for a beer distributor — long days, tight docks, cold freezers, and muscles that always felt one wrong lift away from quitting. Hard work has a way of making you feel like you’ve earned whatever you do afterward.
For me, that meant drinking. It wasn’t just socially or occasionally either….but routinely — three to five beers every night, and more on weekends.
I wasn't necessarily trying to party….just trying to numb myself.
Funny how “normal habits” can quietly turn into chains.
And I didn’t question it.
Until the night God put a giant, immovable tree right in front of my life.
The Calm Before Everything Unraveled
When I got home that night, everything felt familiar in the best way:
My brother next door
My dog Mello losing his mind with excitement
Kali pulling in, soft smile and steady presence
Cards on the table
“Africa” by Toto playing because my brother insisted
Beer cracking open like a signal that the weekend had officially begun
It was warm. Cozy. Comfortable. Familiar.
Or at least it felt that way.
My friend showed up later with a bottle of whiskey — cheap, strong, and loud enough to drown out whatever quiet warnings God was trying to whisper through the rain.
We drank, laugh, played cards, and crossed that invisible line where the room tilts but everyone swears they’re fine.
And somewhere in that thick, smoky haze, he said the sentence that still makes my stomach drop:
“We’re out of cigarettes.”
It should’ve ended there.
A missing pack of smokes shouldn’t change anyone’s life.
But alcohol doesn’t care about logic. Just impulse. And, I followed that impulse. Tragic, but true.
The Ten Steps I Wish I’d Never Taken
“Let’s go to the gas station,” he said.
“Real quick.”
I should’ve said no.
I should’ve told Kali we were leaving…maybe she would have stopped us.
But drunk logic isn’t logic.
It’s momentum.
So I stepped outside.
Cold rain drifting down.
Porch light buzzing.
That strange pressure in the air — almost like something was tugging at me, trying to get my attention.
Ten steps. That’s all it took.
My gut instinct kept telling me to turn around. Go back. This is trouble brewing. Did I listen? Nope, sure didn’t.
The Curve That Split My Life in Half
He backed out quick — too quick — and the second we hit the road, I knew something was wrong.
He was more drunk that I realized and we were going to fast.
Too fast for a dark, wet Kentucky backroad.
The fast curve everyone in town knows better than to disrespect.
I mumbled, “Slow down…”
But it came out weak and blurry — like a thought trying to escape my mouth after it was already too late.
Then it happened.
He swung too wide.
The tires slid.
The headlights whipped across the trees.
And then —
Impact.
Fifty miles an hour into a tree.
(aftermath of the wreckage pictured below, circa 2020.)
Metal crumpling.
Glass exploding.
My hip twisting so sharply it felt like part of me detached from the rest.
The world didn’t go black.
It went silent.
Silent enough to feel the fear settle into my teeth.
When the sound finally came back, I was laying on the ground. My friend (or so I thought at the time) hovered over me.
And something inside him snapped.
“I gotta go!” he yelled.
“I gotta go!”
I tried to speak.
Tried to tell him not to leave….that I broke something.
But my voice was fragile and thin.
He backed away.
Looked over his shoulder.
Looked back down at me and said, “Bye Mark.”
He left me. Just like that.
A Cold Night’s Silence - Alone In The Wreckage
…what… what just happened?
Did he just run off?
No… no, he wouldn’t do that.
He’s my buddy.
He’s… he’s not gone.
He’s coming back.
He has to be coming back.
Okay wait—did that really happen?
He looked at me.
He saw I couldn’t move.
He heard me struggling for breath.
And he—
No… no way.
He’s going to get help.
That’s what he’s doing.
Right?
Right?
…did he actually say “Bye, Mark”?
No.
That can’t be what he said.
Nobody says that.
Not in a moment like this.
Not when—
No…
no…
please tell me he didn’t say that.
Why would he say that?
I can’t hear him anymore.
He’s gone.
Oh God…
he really left me.
I’m all alone.
I’ve always been alone.
Why does it always end like this?
Nobody cares about you, Mark…
you see that now?
You were stupid to think—
No.
Stop.
Stop thinking like that.
Stay awake.
Okay… okay… let’s figure this out.
My leg—
my hip—
my back—
something’s broken.
Feels like everything’s broken.
Let’s try…
let’s try to crawl.
Just… just roll over.
Come on.
AGHH—nope.
Nope.
That’s not happening.
That—
that hurts too bad.
I can’t move.
I really can’t move.
Do I still have feeling in my legs?
I’m helpless.
Oh God…
I’m helpless.
“Hellllllpppppp!”
Try again.
Come on. Try again.
“Heeeeelllllpppppp!”
Someone…
anyone…
Silence.
Just rain.
Just pain.
Just… me.
…
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…
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…
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I’m sorry, God.
I’m so sorry.
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
…
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Am I still alive?
…
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…
…
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…
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I don’t know how long I lay there.
Rain hit my face.
Blood dripped somewhere I couldn’t see.
My leg wouldn’t move.
My breath came out in painful, short bursts.
Everything felt far away except the fear.
I tried yelling.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Nothing.
Just the sound of rain on metal…
and my own heartbeat pounding like it didn’t know if it wanted to keep going.
I cried. It wasn’t even a tough cry.
I cried like a child.
I knew I had done this to myself.
The drinking.
The choices - all of it.
All the nudges God gave me to stop. I didn’t listen. I just kept going. I didn’t think I needed God - until this moment.
And lying there in the cold grass, next to a twisted up smashed truck, I felt like the thief on the cross — the one who knew he deserved it.
I didn’t pray for rescue or for healing or for God to rescue me.
All I could manage was:
“God… I’m… sorry.”
Three words.
Barely a whisper.
But they came from the deepest place I’d ever spoken from.
And God heard my prayer. What a wonderful and gracious God He is.
Truth be told, had I died that night….I wouldn’t have ended up in Heaven.
So not only did God save me from the wreckage, He saved me from eternal damnation.
Headlights, Hope, and a Stranger God Sent
Five minutes later — maybe less, maybe more — a pair of headlights turned onto the road.
I had just enough strength to lift my hand.
Just enough.
The driver saw me.
Swerved onto the shoulder.
Jumped out, ran toward me without a second thought.
“Hey! Don’t move! I’m calling 911!”
He knelt down beside me.
Put his hand on my shoulder.
Stayed with me in the cold, the rain, the pain, the fear — until help came.
He didn’t treat me like garbage.
Didn’t judge me.
He just stayed.
A stranger in a world full of people who walk away.
I thanked God for that man.
And I still do.
Because sometimes God saves you with miracles…
and sometimes He saves you with a man in a car who refuses to pretend he didn’t see you.
The Hardest Part: Forgiving the Friend Who Left
Recovery wasn’t simple. My hip ached for months, and every step reminded me something had changed. It just felt different….but my body eventually caught up. My heart? That took a lot longer.
The real wound wasn’t the metal or the bruises.
It was the silence.
The empty space where a friend should’ve been.
Left there — like my life didn’t matter. No shout for help or “hold on, I’ve got you.” Not even a glance back to see if I was still breathing.
That kind of hurt settles deep.
But God has a way of stepping into places we think are too broken. He started reshaping me from the inside out — slowly, quietly, in a way that didn’t feel forced.
Forgiving my friend wasn’t something he earned. It was something God asked of me because staying angry would’ve trapped me in that ditch long after the bruises faded.
It turns out forgiveness wasn’t about him at all.
It was about freedom.
And while doctors helped me stand again, God was the One teaching me how to walk — not just with my legs, but with my spirit.
Surrender — The Thing I Never Knew I Needed
Before the wreck, I lived like most men do:
controlled what I could
avoided what I didn’t want to face
drowned what hurt
hid behind work
numbed myself with routine
I thought control was safety.
But lying in that ditch showed me the truth:
I was never in control of anything.
And in losing control, I found the one thing I had been missing:
Surrender.
And I’m not talking about the dramatic or alter-calling kind.
The kind where you finally admit:
“I can’t run my life.
And I never could.”
But from this experience came peace.
Real peace —
the kind I tried to drink my way into for years.
Joy came next.
Then contentment.
Then a quiet, steady faith that didn’t need big moments to survive.
Just a second chance I never saw coming.
Why I Tell This Story
Well, it’s not because I’m proud of it.
I share it because somebody reading this might be living their own quiet disaster.
Trying to numb the hurt.
Running from God.
Reaching for anything that feels safe for a minute.
Taking tiny steps that somehow turn into a cliff.
Feeling unseen, worn down, guilty, or like you’ve drifted too far.
Maybe even feeling like that thief on the cross — the one who knew he had nothing left to offer but honesty.
If that’s you, listen for a second:
God isn’t waiting for perfect words.
He hears the shaky ones.
The whispered ones.
The “Lord… I’m sorry” that barely makes it out.
He met me in that place one cold January night.
And He’ll meet you right where you are too.
Dear Reader, If You Made It This Far….
I want to tell you something gently:
Holding on to what they did is exhausting, isn’t it?
You’ve carried the memory, the heaviness, the sting… maybe longer than anyone knows. And the person who hurt you? They probably walked away without ever realizing the weight they left on your shoulders.
Here’s the hope I want you to hear:
Forgiveness isn’t saying what happened was okay.
It’s saying it no longer gets to control you.
Someone literally left me for dead and God made it possible to forgive them.
“I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” - Philippians 4:13
Letting go doesn’t mean you forget.
It means you stop reliving the wound every time their name crosses your mind.
Forgiveness is freedom.
Not for them—for you.
God sees every piece of the story—every tear, every moment you swallowed the pain, every night you replayed the memory wishing things had gone differently. And He isn’t asking you to pretend it didn’t hurt. He’s inviting you to hand Him what’s been eating at your peace.
You are not weak for wanting to forgive.
And here’s the quiet truth:
God can help you forgive even when your heart isn’t sure it’s ready.
You don’t have to feel it to begin it.
You just have to trust Him with the part that still shakes.
Letting go isn’t losing—it’s the first time you can breathe again.
Christian Hotline & Prayer Support
If you’re struggling or need someone to pray with you, please reach out.
National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Dial 988
Focus on the Family Prayer Line: 1-877-771-4357
The 700 Club Prayer Line: 1-800-700-7000
Billy Graham Evangelistic Association: 1-888-388-2683
Chatnow (24/7 Christian Chat & Prayer):
https://chatnow.org
You are not alone. Someone is ready to listen and pray with you right now.
Call to Repentance
If you’ve been trying to earn your way into heaven, it’s time to stop striving and start surrendering. Today can be the day everything changes. The Bible says in 2 Corinthians 6:2, “Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.” Don’t wait for a better moment. Turn from your sin, believe in the finished work of Jesus Christ on the cross, and receive the gift of eternal life. He is calling—respond to Him today.
Call to Action
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