The first time it happened I was in shock.
The second time it happened I was still in shock.
After that, shock became a way of life.
Each time I was beaten by my father—a man celebrated in my family and our town for his masculinity—an athlete, a successful dentist, an upstanding member of the community—I discovered new levels of hatred I never knew I possessed.
But the physical violence wasn’t the worst of it.
The deeper wounds came later, in the casual cruelty of disparaging comments. I was “too soft,” and “sensitive” in a house where boys were supposed to be something different. I didn’t even know how to throw a football. He never taught me; it was just assumed to come naturally.
His words cut a path into my psyche where they nested for years like a silent scream.
After I became aware this wasn’t how fathers were supposed to treat their sons, my world began to collapse. While I was on the way down my father passed away and my awareness finally came to life. He had abused me and it wasn’t my fault.
But now he was gone. I could not imagine forgiving him for what he had done. I was forced to confront what we actually mean when we talk about “forgiveness.”
Cultural misconception
The standard thinking regarding “forgiveness” is really “absolution”—letting the abuser off the hook.
Men look at this as anathema to what is acceptable. Forgiving someone is often viewed as weakness. A wrong has been done, and many men see no framework in which that could ever be acceptable. The masculine context matters here. Men are often socialized to believe that forgiveness means you’re saying “it’s okay” or that you’re being passive. This can be especially toxic when combined with messages about strength—the very criticism my father leveled at me. There’s a cruel irony in how the path to healing might now require the very “softness” I was punished for.
But the absolution model actually keeps men trapped. If forgiveness means the abuser must be “let off the hook,” then when that person is dead or unrepentant or unreachable, forgiveness becomes literally impossible. You’re stuck. The hook—that thing that someone else put in you—stays in. You are forever tied to the actions that put you in this space without your consent.
Reframe
I struggled with that for a long time—the ‘that’s not really forgiveness’ objection—but when I got to the question of which definition served my healing, which one kept the power with my father, the answer became easier.
We all have a choice.
Doing nothing does a lot, and it’s not healthy for us, for our families, for our healing. Ignoring trauma and shame locks it inside where it eats at us. The hook that was never put there by us sits and festers. The only direction it can go is outward into self-destructive behaviors like addiction, rage, failed relationships, and the never-ending quest for reparation that never comes.
The masculine choice is to take control of the situation. That takes real strength. And to do that we need to be aware that something outside of our control actually happened. Taking the veil off ‘that thing,’ admitting it, exposes it—and that exposure begins its destruction. And finally, extracting it from our life, pulling that hook out and tossing it away liberates us from the past and the person or persons that caused its birth in the first place.
When that happens we remove the anchor that has kept us restrained. And when that’s gone, we really grow.
Implications
“Removing the hook” from yourself changes things immediately.
Forgiveness doesn’t need an apology, and that’s the most liberating thing. Many sons never receive acknowledgement from those that wounded them. Some abusers are immovable. Others are unreachable. And some, like my father, are gone. Healing never happens if you need to rely on someone else’s power, which is what began this process in the first place. Removing the hook returns that power to you.
Forgiving someone doesn’t mean reopening a relationship, restoring trust, or granting access. You set the boundaries and you keep them intact. In many cases, they become clearer. You may choose to reform a relationship with strict boundaries but that’s your choice, no one else’s, and you can cancel it if you want.
Forgiveness doesn’t erase anger or pain—it contextualizes them. The harm remains real, but it no longer defines the architecture of your life. That’s a concrete outcome—it’s visceral. You can actually feel what it’s like to finally be free and that feeling defines the kind of man your partner, your family and your friends deserve.
Finally, forgiveness becomes available now. Not after justice is served. Not after understanding is reached. Not after time “does its thing.” Forgiveness as self-extraction is an act you can take the moment you recognize the hook—and decide you no longer want to live tethered to it.
Call to hope
Forgiveness, when understood this way, isn’t a weakness or a gift to an abuser. Nor is it admission that one’s future is tied to one’s past. It’s freedom—and it’s available to anyone who decides they no longer want to live tethered to what harmed them.
Taking the hook out of myself didn’t erase the past. It didn’t make the abuse acceptable. But it ended its authority over my life.
—
iStock image
