When I was fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, my swimming coach, a husband and father, molested me. He convinced me we were having "an affair."

Much later, in my thirties, as I began to understand that the accurate term was not "an affair" but "statutory rape," I became enraged. I had been a young teenager! He was twenty-five! That’s not adultery, that’s sexual abuse!

Among sexual abuse survivors and their advocates, there’s a lot of support for rage. I agree that anger is appropriate -- for a while. Bruce violated my body, broke my heart, and left me feeling ashamed of my "adulterous" behavior. His actions were wrong, and felonious.

But when I turned forty a few years ago, I began to ask myself, am I facing another forty years of bitterness over something that happened in my teens? Might forgiveness be possible? And might it be a healthier response than rage?

I first considered forgiveness when Bruce called me and asked me to forgive him. He had heard that I was using our story as Exhibit A while I toured the country, speaking about coach-athlete sexual abuse. No longer bound to keep my childhood promise not to tell, I had been openly identifying Bruce, expressing my anger and vengeance by telling whoever would listen what had happened to me. It didn’t take long before someone recognized his name and reported him to his supervisor. So when Bruce called and asked me to forgive him, his job was in jeopardy.

"I don’t trust you," I replied coldly. "You just want me to stop talking about you in public." It was a short conversation.

Afterward, he wrote me two apologetic letters. Still wary and enraged, I put them aside. Forgiveness was on his agenda, not mine.

But almost against my will, his letters touched me. He sounded sincere. He sounded remorseful. Regardless of his motivations, he was reaching out to me, trying to repair a very damaged relationship. His question -- Will you forgive me? -- began to intrigue me. Maybe forgiveness should be on my agenda, I thought. Maybe I could lay down my burden of anger. Maybe, rather than remain forever entrenched in the victim role, I could take responsibility for healing myself. And maybe, in ways I could not yet imagine, Bruce would help me.

So I summoned all my courage and called Bruce, saying that "some sort of peace or reconciliation or forgiveness might be possible," adding bitterly, "but I don’t see how."

I couldn’t see how. Like most people, I’d heard a few things about forgiveness from religious leaders, but had never been taught how to forgive. Strangely enough, Bruce helped me learn.

Over the next six months, we talked many times. We exchanged dozens of heartfelt (angry, grieving, apologetic, cautious, grateful) letters. We met in person twice. We meditated together, prayed together, and discussed Christian, Zen, and other books we were reading on the topic of forgiveness.

Gradually, I began to believe that he cared not only about himself, but about me. I began to believe that he was telling the truth when he said he had stopped abusing kids more than two decades ago. I began to sense that his request for forgiveness offered me an opportunity: a chance to grow, to learn, and perhaps to heal. Gradually, I began to open my heart.

It was an excruciating, complicated process. I was afraid to revisit very old, very deep wounds. Expressing anger to him, I was afraid he would yell at me or threaten me. When he would make little jokes, I was afraid he was trying to seduce me, at least emotionally. Sometimes I felt guilty, the way I had when I was young, as if I were doing something wrong. 

After our first meeting, I cried uncontrollably for about three weeks in a row, and felt physically ill -- apparently a post-traumatic stress reaction triggered by the sight, sound, and scent of Bruce. I told Bruce about that emotional breakdown, and about my childhood confusion and guilt, and about my adult rage. He listened, and eventually I thanked him for that.

Ultimately, I did forgive him, and told that too.

Afterward, I felt different. Changed. More understanding of others’ mistakes, and less likely to take their mistakes personally. Less easily wounded. I know how to forgive now, and I do it every day: mammogram technicians, telemarketers, tailgaters - and myself.

I’ve come up with five essential keys:

1) Awareness: Remember who hurt you and how.

2) Validation: Talk to a sympathetic listener.

3) Compassion: Strive to see the offender’s humanity.

4) Humility: Reflect on your own faults and failings.

5) Self-forgiveness: Open your heart to yourself.

I had thought that forgiveness was something you did for others, and now know it’s something you do for yourself -- as well as for others. I had thought forgiveness was an end point in itself, but I now see that there’s something beyond forgiveness: freedom. The forgiver becomes free from the past, and free from anger, and free to love everyone (including herself) more in the future. Forgiving my molester was extremely difficult. It was also the most liberating thing I’ve ever done.

Email our friend, Mariah Burton Nelson, to tell her how much you have enjoyed her articles on OfSpirit.com: Mariah@MariahBurtonNelson.com

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Mariah Burton Nelson is the author of The Unburdened Heart: Five Keys to
Forgiveness and Freedom (Harper San Francisco 2000). She can be reached at
Mariah@MariahBurtonNelson.com.