There are men and women walking among us who seem whole. They wear their Sunday best, smile politely, and shake hands confidently. But if you look closely — really closely — you’ll notice something strange. Beneath the fabric, even beneath the skin, lies a dark, sticky coating. You can’t see it in daylight, but it glimmers under the weight of hurt.
I’ve observed it. It moves silently through life — patient,
waiting.
The coating doesn’t form overnight. It begins small, like
smoke curling around the heart after a deep wound. A harsh word. A betrayal. A
loss too raw to name. It sneaks in quietly, promising protection — “I’ll
never let this happen to you again.”
And in that promise, it finds a home.
When the Coating Finds a Host
I once watched a man who loved deeply. He gave his heart to
a woman, trusting her with all he was. One day, she turned to him and said, “I
don’t love you anymore.” Just like that, his world shattered. The coating saw
its chance — and wrapped itself around his heart. But this wasn’t its first
visit. Years before, his father’s sharp words had already prepared the ground.
The new pain watered what was buried.
Then there was a woman — once innocent and gentle — who had
her childhood stolen by a relative. She learned to smile through the pain, to
laugh where she should have cried. Over the years, the coating seeped deeper,
becoming part of her bloodstream and changing even the rhythm of her heart.
And two friends, brothers by trust, until one found betrayal
hiding behind loyalty. That moment — the sting of discovery — called forth the
coating again.
Each story is the same: pain, then protection, then poison.
How the Coating Spreads
The coating is misleading. It appears as strength — “I don’t
care anymore,” “I’ve moved on.” But it’s not true strength. It’s just defense. It
also attracts others who wear it. Hurt recognizes hurt. They come together,
confirming each other’s pain, mistaking cynicism for wisdom. They worship the
coating — feeding it through anger, gossip, pride, or silence.
If scientists studied it, they’d find layers:
- At the
core, hurt — a raw ache, an unspoken grief.
- Around
it, anger — a wall built to keep the pain out (and everyone else
too).
- Then resentment
— the rerun of pain, over and over, until it becomes the soundtrack of
one’s life.
- And
finally, bitterness — the full armor. At this stage, the person no
longer remembers the original wound; only the war.
The coating whispers, “They don’t deserve your peace.”
And the tragedy is — we believe it.
The Cost of Carrying It
I’ve seen what it does to people. It exhausts them. Their
minds replay old scenes like a broken film reel—what happened, what should have
happened, what they’ll never forgive. Creativity dims. Joy diminishes. Focus
vanishes. They live half-alive, weighed down by invisible chains.
Some mask it with performance — success, possessions, titles
— but beneath it all lies fatigue. The coating doesn’t just cloud the heart; it
erodes the body. It raises blood pressure, weakens the immune system, and fuels
sleepless nights. Bitterness, a layer of the coating, scientists now say,
increases the risk of heart disease. But you don’t need science to see it — you
can hear it in the sighs of people who can’t let go.
It distorts self-image. Even when they dress sharply and
smile brightly, the mirror shows a shrunken ghostly version of themselves —
unworthy, cynical, waiting for the next wound. They see life not as a possibility,
but as proof of pain. Relationships crumble. New love feels unsafe. Every word
is filtered through the residue of the past.
When the Coating Cracks
But here’s what they don’t know — what I didn’t know
until I saw it with my own eyes.
The coating fears one thing: light. And light often enters not through wisdom,
but through surrender.
I heard of a man once — a prisoner for 27 years, yet freer
than most of us walking outside. Nelson Mandela. When he forgave those who took
his best years, he peeled away the coating.
Immaculée Ilibagiza, who forgave the killers of her family during the Rwandan
genocide, turned her pain into a golden lining.
And Mary Johnson, who embraced the man who murdered her son — showing the world
that love can rebuild what hate destroys.
They all had the same realization: forgiveness isn’t
weakness. It’s warfare.
It’s saying, “You will not use me anymore.”
The Golden Lining
If the coating represents unforgiveness, then forgiveness is
the golden lining — soft, radiant, and strong enough to dissolve the darkness.
It begins when you admit: “I am hurt.”
Not in anger. In truth.
Then you look in the mirror and see what the coating has
made of you, the ghostly you; the fatigue, the short temper, the distrust, the
sleepless nights. You realize the cost of carrying it. Forgiveness doesn’t mean
pretending it didn’t hurt. It means refusing to let it define you.
It’s not approval. It’s release.
Not surrender. Liberation.
And when the golden lining spreads, something changes.
The memories remain, but the sting fades.
The anger loses its voice.
And for the first time in a long time, peace, that elusive peace, finds a home.
What You Can Do
If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of that
coating, start small.
Acknowledge your pain.
Write it down. Name it.
Then whisper the impossible: “I forgive.”
You might not feel it yet, and that's okay. Forgiveness
starts as a seed, not a feeling.
Over time, the seed grows — it weakens the coating, cracks the armor, and allows
light to pass through. Slowly, you rise — stronger, lighter, golden.
Because forgiveness isn’t about freeing others.
It’s about freeing yourself from the prison built by pain.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what true power looks like.
Call to Action
Take a quiet moment today.
Reflect on who or what has coated your heart. Then ask: “What would my life
look like without this weight?”
That’s where healing begins.
Comments
Post a Comment