There is a step that goes between “I cannot forgive this person” and actually forgiving them, and almost nobody is taught it. You write them a letter. You say everything. And then you never send it. It sounds too simple to matter. I have watched it break open things that had not moved in twenty years.
Why It Works
Unforgiveness is usually not a refusal. It is an unfinished sentence. There was something you never got to say, and until it is said somewhere, it keeps trying to be said everywhere.
Think about what actually happens when you cannot let something go. You rehearse. You conduct the conversation in the shower, in the car, at two in the morning. You compose responses to a person who is not present.
That rehearsal is your mind trying to complete something. But rehearsal never completes it, because rehearsal has no endpoint — it just loops. Writing gives the sentence somewhere to land.
And doing it on paper rather than in person removes the two things that usually prevent honesty: their reaction, and the consequences.
Why You Do Not Send It
People ask this immediately, so let me be direct about it.
The letter is not a communication. It is an extraction. Its purpose is to get something out of you, not to get something into them.
Sending it introduces an entirely different set of problems: their response, their defence, their counter-accusation, the possibility that they do not remember it, the possibility that they do and do not care. All of that hands control of your healing back to the person who hurt you.
There are situations where a real conversation is right and good. This is not that. Do that separately, later, if it is wise. This letter has one job.
How to Write It
By hand if you can. Something about the slowness helps. But typed is fine — I typed mine.
- Address them directly. By name. “Dear ___” — not “to whom it may concern.” Specificity is the whole mechanism.
- Say what they did. Every incident you can remember. Do not summarise. Do not soften. Do not add the qualifiers you would add if they were reading.
- Say what it cost you. This is the part people skip and it is the most important. Not just what happened — what it took. Years. Trust. A relationship. A version of yourself.
- Say what you believed about yourself afterward. The belief is the rubber band. “I should have stopped it.” “I was stupid to trust them.” “There is something wrong with me that this happened.”
- Say what you never got to say. The sentence you have been rehearsing. Write it down.
- Stop when you are empty. Not when it is polished. When there is nothing left.
It will not be fair. It is not supposed to be fair. It is supposed to be true to what you actually feel, which is a different standard.
What to Do With It Afterward
Do not reread it repeatedly. Rereading is rehearsal again, and it undoes the work.
When you are finished, sit with it for a moment. Then do the transfer deliberately. Take a red pen and write the five surrenders across the pages — I give this to the Savior. I forgive myself. I forgive the person or organization. I let this go. I will not pick this up again. Write them until the words underneath are covered.
Then get rid of it. Burn it, shred it, bury it. The disposal is not superstition; it is a physical signal to yourself that the transfer is complete and the document is no longer yours to consult.
What is left is not the letter. It is the fact that you said it.
What Happened When One Person Did This
A young woman in my ward worked through a list of one hundred thirty-six items. She released one hundred thirty-five. Then she reached the last — a former boyfriend — and stopped.
“I cannot,” she said. “I hate him. When you say his name I feel sick.” There was no drama in it. Only exhaustion.
I told her to go home for the holidays and write him a letter she would never send. Tell him everything. Come back in January.
When she walked into my office in January, I did not recognise her. She had written it — every memory, every wound, every betrayal. And then she had kept writing, about the Savior, about how He had already taken the other one hundred thirty-five, about how His Atonement was not theoretical to her anymore.
She chose to forgive. Not because it was fair. Because she refused to carry him any longer. And as she finished writing she felt as though the Savior had put His arms around her.
A Word of Caution
If what you are carrying involves abuse, violence, or trauma, do this with support rather than alone. A letter can open things that need somewhere safe to go.
That is not a reason to avoid it. It is a reason to have someone alongside — a counsellor, a trusted leader, a person who can sit with you afterward.
The written process in The Rubber Band Ball is designed to be worked through gradually, and free worksheets are available on the resources page. Take the hard ones slowly. Nobody is timing this.
Frequently Asked Questions
How do I write a forgiveness letter I will never send?
Address the person by name, write every incident without softening it, state what it cost you, name what you came to believe about yourself afterward, and write the sentence you have been rehearsing. Stop when you are empty rather than when it is polished. Specificity is the mechanism — summary does not work.
Why should I not send the letter?
The letter is an extraction, not a communication. Its purpose is to get something out of you rather than into them. Sending it introduces their response, defence, or indifference, all of which hand control of your healing back to the person who caused the harm. A real conversation may be appropriate separately and later.
What should I do with the letter afterward?
Do not reread it repeatedly, since rereading becomes rehearsal and undoes the work. Write the five surrenders across the pages in red pen until the original words are covered, then destroy it — burn, shred, or bury it. The disposal signals that the transfer is complete and the document is no longer yours to consult.
What if the letter makes me feel worse?
A temporary increase in intensity is common, because the letter surfaces what was buried. What matters is completing the transfer step rather than stopping at the writing. If the material involves abuse or trauma, do this with a counsellor or trusted leader present rather than alone.
Does writing a letter really change anything?
Unforgiveness is often an unfinished sentence rather than a refusal — something you never got to say that keeps trying to be said. Rehearsal loops without completing. Writing gives the sentence somewhere to land, and doing it on paper removes the two barriers to honesty: their reaction and the consequences.
Should I write a letter for every person on my list?
Not necessarily. Most items release through the ordinary written process. The unsent letter is specifically for the ones that will not move — the person whose name produces a physical reaction. The process page explains where it fits in the sequence.