The unexpected swerve of a luxury car caught me off guard. One moment, I was lost in a nostalgic rap tune from the ’90s, and the next, I was skidding to a stop mere inches from a pair of glaring taillights. Instinct kicked in, and my arm instinctively shot out to protect my precious cargo—my dry cleaning, to be specific—while I gripped the brake pedal with my toes in a frenzy of adrenaline.
I was fuming.
But then, the driver raised a hand in apology, and my anger dissipated. Who hasn’t made a mistake while driving? In that moment, I channeled all the wisdom of spiritual figures and yoga instructors to wave back graciously. Look at me, I thought. I’m practically a saint. A master of forgiveness. A contemporary Mother Teresa navigating through traffic blaring tunes from my oversized SUV.
Later, during a family dinner filled with the shared grievances that come from years of loving one another, I pondered why forgiving a stranger had been so effortless. I glanced at my husband, still nursing irritation from a recent argument whose details had faded, and at my four children, for whom I was trying to overlook the chaos they caused during their entrance into the world. It struck me: forgiving strangers was significantly simpler than forgiving my own family.
But why is that? These are the very people I cherish most—those I would risk everything for, yet they often bear the brunt of my frustrations.
If someone bumps into me in a grocery store, I’ll brush it off. A stranger steps on my foot in a packed theater? No big deal; I forgive you. Someone critiques my writing online, expressing their opinion in a less-than-gentle manner? I can respect that passion, even if it drips with poor grammar.
But when it comes to my husband—my life partner who chews too loudly during our Netflix sessions? I can hold a grudge for days. When he pretends to be asleep while I clean up after a sick child, I lose control of my temper. And don’t get me started on the anger I feel toward the sick child herself, even though it’s absurd to be upset with her. Then I’m angry at myself for being angry at her.
Let’s set aside the trivial annoyances of chewing and cleaning up vomit for a moment and dive into deeper issues, like my inability to engage in political discussions with loved ones who hold differing views, or how I’ve severed ties with certain family members after a painful loss without a second thought.
Historically, my ability to practice forgiveness with those I truly love has been weak.
This seems paradoxical. Why would we find it easier to be forgiving—or kind and patient—with strangers than with those closest to us?
I believe the answer lies in vulnerability. The Ms. Luxury Cars of the world are strangers; we have no emotional stake in their actions, which, while annoying, aren’t personal. In contrast, our loved ones, whether they are our family or chosen kin, are everything to us. They witness our most vulnerable moments, supporting us through our struggles. Their actions feel profoundly personal because we have an intimate bond with them.
We complicate matters by inserting ourselves into the equation, asking, “But I love you, how could you chew noisily, make a mess, disagree with me, or hurt me?” I completely understand this impulse. I can be the dramatic diva at a restaurant, exclaiming, “Don’t you know who I am?” to those I care about, failing to realize that love alone doesn’t guarantee a conflict-free existence—nor would that be very exciting.
Mother Teresa once suggested that to change the world, we should start by loving our families. This is likely meant to be a lofty challenge. She doesn’t advise us to change the world by simply tolerating aggressive drivers in traffic—though that is still a commendable start. No, it’s in our familial relationships that we can truly be ourselves, and sometimes that authenticity can be messy. She sets the bar high because significant work yields the most profound impact, and in an increasingly chaotic world, such work is more crucial than ever.
For me, this journey involves taking deep breaths and repeating a mantra: “Hey, it’s not always about you.” This may not be an exact quote from Mother Teresa, but it gets to the heart of the matter. Remembering that the deeper the hurt, the greater the love beneath it can help make forgiveness almost beautiful.
Almost.
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Summary
This article explores the paradox of why we often find it easier to forgive strangers compared to our loved ones. It delves into the complexities of family dynamics, vulnerability, and the emotional stakes involved in our closest relationships. The author shares personal experiences of navigating anger and forgiveness, emphasizing the importance of love and understanding in overcoming these challenges.