Is There Ever Really Forgiveness?

I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching lately. I’ve also been talking with people who’ve been through circumstances similar to mine. Out of all of that reflection, one question keeps coming up.

Well—one question with several sharp edges.

Is there ever truly forgiveness for a person’s substance use?

I know that’s a loaded question. So let me explain what I mean.

On the surface, the answer seems easy. Many people can say, “Yes, I forgive the behavior.” Especially if the person owns it, acknowledges the harm, and takes real steps to change. In those cases, forgiveness can feel clean and even hopeful. It’s something people can say they’re okay with, something they can nod at and move past.

But that kind of forgiveness gets thinner as the story gets messier.

Relapse complicates everything. One relapse strains goodwill; repeated relapses tend to drain it entirely. What starts as forgiveness often mutates into something else—distance, discomfort, or that strange, hollow pity that’s somehow worse than anger. The kind that feels condescending rather than compassionate.

And that’s not the kind of forgiveness I’m talking about.

I’m talking about the kind of forgiveness that lets someone back into your actual life. Your day-to-day existence. The kind that shows up in actions instead of words.

From my experience—purely anecdotal, but deeply lived—that kind of forgiveness is rare.

The First Group: The Ones Who Stay

There is a small group of people who genuinely understand. They’re able to see substance use as part of the story, not the whole damn book. They understand the context. They understand the humanity. And they understand that your loyalty, your character, and your worth didn’t evaporate because things went sideways.

These people choose to return loyalty with loyalty.

They check in. They show up. They don’t vanish when things get uncomfortable. Even if they live far away, there’s no hesitation about seeing you in person if the opportunity arises.

These are real friends.

In my experience, they make up maybe 10–25% of the people I once thought belonged in my inner circle. And over the last few years, I’ve learned something important: these are the only friendships worth serious energy.

The Second Group: The Faders

Then there’s the next group.

They say they support you. They talk about getting together sometime. But somehow, that time never comes. Plans dissolve. Calls aren’t returned. Schedules are always too full. And if you push—politely, gently—you get the same vague reassurance followed by silence.

There’s no overt cruelty here. No dramatic rejection. Just absence.

These people don’t hate you—but they don’t know how to deal with you either. On some level, you’ve been quietly reclassified as damaged goods. Not dangerous, exactly. Just inconvenient. Uncomfortable. Easier to keep at arm’s length.

For a long time, I wasted enormous energy trying to hold on to these friendships. Convincing myself they still mattered. That if I just tried harder, they’d come back around.

What I’ve learned recently—through reflection and some hard reading—is that these relationships were already over. I just hadn’t accepted it yet.

That realization comes with grief. And sadness. And a little wishful thinking that things could’ve been different. But it also comes with clarity: my life is better without chasing people who can’t—or won’t—understand what my changes were really about.

My substance use wasn’t personal. I didn’t implode my life to inconvenience anyone else. And if someone can’t see that, then it’s time to say goodbye—not out of malice, but out of self-respect.

These people can exist as acquaintances. But they’re also a cautionary tale about how carefully we should choose who we call a true friend.

The Third Group: The Idiots

And then there’s the last group.

The judgmental ones. The sanctimonious ones. The people with a laundry list of their own flaws who decide your flaw is unforgivable.

Losing them is almost a perk of recovery.

That may sound harsh, but it’s honest. These are people no one needs in their lives. Getting rid of them is less a loss and more a long-overdue housecleaning.

Good riddance.

What Recovery Really Costs

One of the things they often say in recovery is that you need to get rid of the friends you used substances with. And that’s true—especially if those relationships revolve around use and only one of you is trying to get better.

But I’ve started to think it means something broader, too.

Recovery forces you to audit your entire social circle.

Not everyone deserves a seat at the table anymore. And that includes the people who aren’t fully supportive, who hedge their compassion, or who quietly step away when things stop being easy.

If someone truly wants to be a productive part of your life, they’ll find their way back—on healthier terms. If they don’t, you’re better off without them.

New People, New Risks

What we don’t talk about enough is how unsettling new friendships can feel in recovery.

New people already know your story. That can be comforting—or unsettling. Suspicion becomes a default setting, especially after being burned by people you trusted deeply.

But here’s the thing: not everyone who enters your life is there to hurt you.

Some of these new connections can surprise you. They can rebuild your self-esteem. They can remind you that you’re not irredeemable, unlovable, or permanently broken.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s worth the risk.

The Actual Answer

After all this reflection, I think I’ve found the answer I was looking for.

Stop wasting energy on people who don’t return it.

Spend that energy on the ones who do. Or on new people who might. Or honestly—on better things entirely.

Like contemplating your navel.

And of course, as always: your dog and your mom are always worth the effort. They never stop showing up. They never stop spending energy on you.

Some relationships fade into the ether.

Others step forward and become real.

That’s not failure.
That’s clarity.