Dear Grudge

You arrived the day I realised I had been deceived.

At first, you came like a shadow, whispering every detail of the scam back to me: the glossy brochures, the lawyer’s smile, the promises of security. You reminded me, again and again, of the money that slipped through my fingers. You fed me images of the perpetrators—fat with lies, smirking at our foolishness.

I let you stay. I even fed you. Anger was your oxygen, resentment your food. And you grew strong.

But you weren’t a guest. You were a parasite.

You drained my joy. You made me suspicious. You told me stories that made my heart smaller and my soul meaner. You wanted me to become like those who wronged me.

I nearly let you win.

Then I remembered another voice—Jesus on the mountainside, speaking of peacemakers and the pure in heart, blessing those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. His words were older, deeper, truer than yours.

So I made a choice. I dug down into that bedrock. And when I did, I found you weren’t as powerful as you pretended to be. Slowly, your grip loosened. The poison drained out.

You don’t live here anymore.

Yes, you left a scar. The memory of that loss will always remain. But the scar is not yours to keep. It has been re-written into a different story: one of rebuilding, of learning contentment, of discovering generosity.

So, goodbye, Grudge. You once thought you defined me. You don’t.

Sincerely,
Me