The Psychology of Holding Grudges

You know you should forgive them. Everyone says so—the books, the therapists, the well-meaning advice. For your own sake, they insist. Holding onto anger only hurts you. You've tried. You've decided to let it go, genuinely decided. And then something triggers it—a memory, a song, their name in someone's mouth—and the rage is right there, undiminished, as if you never tried at all. The wound that was supposed to have healed reopens like it was fresh. Years have passed and the feeling hasn't aged at all.

The hurt was real. Maybe it still is. Something happened that shouldn't have happened, something that can't be undone, something that changed things permanently. Forgiveness sounds like a reasonable idea in theory. In practice, it feels like being asked to pretend none of it mattered. And it mattered. It matters still. The idea that you could simply decide to release something this significant feels like a misunderstanding of what you're carrying.

The Quiet Admission

Part of you knows that carrying this is costly. The resentment consumes energy. It poisons adjacent relationships. It keeps you tethered to someone you'd rather forget. You understand, intellectually, that holding the grudge punishes you more than them. And still you can't let go. The cost is clear and you're paying it anyway, which tells you the grudge is providing something you need even if you can't name it.

What you don't usually admit is that the anger feels like the only justice you'll get. They're not suffering consequences. They might not even know or care how much they hurt you. The rage is the only thing that says what happened was wrong. Letting go of the anger feels like letting them off the hook, like erasing the fact that something terrible occurred. The unforgiveness is the last remaining protest against injustice. The grudge is the only consequence they'll face, even if they never feel it.

The Psychology Behind It

Anger is easier than grief. Beneath the resentment is often profound hurt—betrayal, loss, the shattering of trust or possibility. Harriet Lerner's work on forgiveness and anger reveals this protective function—the rage shields us from the vulnerability of our grief. Staying angry avoids feeling the full weight of what actually happened. The rage functions as a shield against the pain underneath. Forgiveness would require moving through what the anger has been protecting you from, and that might be unbearable.

The sense of injustice demands resolution. The moral scales should balance. What they did was wrong, and wrong should have consequences. Forgiveness feels like allowing wrong to go unanswered, like accepting an unfair universe. We resist that acceptance at a deep level. Letting go feels like participating in the injustice.

We wait for something from the other person that may never come. Acknowledgment. Apology. Genuine remorse. Some sign that they understand what they did. Brene Brown's research on shame and vulnerability suggests that when we make our healing contingent on someone else's behavior, we give away our power. Forgiveness feels contingent on their behavior, which makes our peace depend on someone who's already shown they might not provide what we need. The waiting can last forever.

The unforgiveness has become part of identity. "I'm the one who was betrayed." The story of the wrong is woven into the story of self. Releasing it feels like losing something essential, even if what's lost is painful to carry. The grudge has become familiar, part of who you understand yourself to be.

When This Shows Up

It shows up in triggers that reignite the grievance. A song, a place, a name, a situation that echoes the original wound. Something in the present connects to something in the past, and suddenly you're reliving it, the emotion as sharp as if it just happened. The peace you thought you'd found was conditional, dependent on not being reminded.

It appears in the stories you tell yourself and others. The rehearsed version of what happened, refined over years of retelling. The narrative that casts you as the wronged party and them as the villain. The story has become essential to how you understand the relationship, the past, maybe yourself. Letting go of the grudge might require revising the story.

It lives in the relationships that hold the grievance in place. Family members or friends who share your outrage, validate your pain, would feel betrayed themselves if you forgave. The social system has invested in your unforgiveness. Letting go might mean letting them down.

It emerges in partial forgiveness that doesn't stick. You thought you'd let it go. You felt lighter for a while. Then the trigger hit and everything came flooding back, as intense as before. The setback discourages further attempts. Why try again if it just comes back?

Forgiveness isn't saying what happened was okay. It wasn't. It's not reconciliation—you don't have to let them back in. It's not forgetting—you probably can't and shouldn't. It's releasing the ongoing grip of the grievance so it stops poisoning your present. The cost of holding on is yours to pay, daily, whether they're affected or not. At some point, the weight becomes heavier than the release. That's usually when forgiveness becomes possible—not as a moral accomplishment, but as exhaustion's gift.

What Actually Helps

• Separate forgiveness from reconciliation—you can release the grip of resentment without letting someone back into your life or pretending what happened was acceptable.
• Allow yourself to grieve what was lost rather than staying in anger, which often protects us from feeling the full weight of the hurt underneath.
• Consider what holding the grudge is costing you—energy, peace, presence—and whether continuing to pay that price serves your wellbeing or theirs.