I was sitting on a small, wooden bridge in one of the canyons above Salt Lake City — Millcreek, maybe, or Little Cottonwood. I was fifteen or sixteen, still mostly awkward like most boys are at that age, but I was starting to figure out a little about who I was. I was with my extended family at a reunion. I’m sure someone brought potato salad and that weird Jello-cottage-cheese dish I’ve never been able to stomach.
The bridge spanned a small creek. It couldn’t have been more than five feet wide and hardly deep enough to soak your feet in. I sat with my legs dangling over the edge, just inches above the water. My hands were flat behind me on the sun-warmed planks of the simple bridge.
One of my young cousins — maybe eight or nine years old — walked up to me holding a rock about the size of a softball. It was the kind of rock an eight-year-old has to pick up with both hands, but she had it balanced with her right hand on her shoulder like an Olympic shot putter.
She looked right at me.
I looked right back at her.
“You’d better not throw that rock at me,” I said.
And then she did. She didn’t hesitate at all. She just let it fly.
It caught me on the left pinky, smashing it flat against the bridge before I even had time to flinch. I’m left-handed, and you never realize how important the pinky is until you feel it throb with each heartbeat.
I yelled at her, pulled my hand back like it had been burned — or smashed by a rock — and watched a marble-sized lump form on my knuckle.
I remember jumping to my feet and threatening to throw her into the creek if she didn’t get lost. She ran, but I didn’t chase her. I just sat there looking at my finger, feeling a mix of pain, rage, and the kind of teenage “righteousness” that can turn petty things into permanent scars.
That incident shouldn’t have mattered for more than a day or two — a week at most. There was no lasting damage. Other than being sore for a couple of days, nothing came of that. But I carried that experience around with me for years.
Every time I saw that cousin, I’d think about that stupid rock. I’d tell myself I was being civil, but that she deserved disdain from me. Somewhere deep inside, I’d written her off. Because of one, silly moment that she probably didn’t even remember.
I’m embarrassed to admit that. But it’s true.
Honestly, though, it wasn’t about the rock. Not really.
That rock just gave me a reason.
The rock was something to point to when I wanted to justify the way I stiffened around certain people. Or why I held back when others reached out. It became proof that people could hurt you out of nowhere — and that I was right to be guarded.
That’s what chips on our shoulders really are: false evidence. Emotional baggage from a time we didn’t get what we thought we deserved or when we got what we didn’t deserve. We turn pain into principle and carry it like it makes us stronger.
But the truth is, it only weighs us down.
I don’t know when it happened, but at some point when we were both in our adult years, I realized I didn’t hate her anymore. I couldn’t justify the grudge I was still dragging behind me. She wasn’t a monster. She was a kid. And, like I said, a kid who probably didn’t even remember that it ever happened.
Think about it, though. I carried that around for years, letting it shape how I saw her. Letting it shape how I felt about myself, too.
See, that’s the thing about resentment: it doesn’t just define how you see other people. It defines how you see you.
I thought I was being strong, remembering what people had done. I thought staying guarded made me wise. But what it really made me was lonely. And brittle. Quick to judge. Slow to forgive.
Especially slow to forgive myself.
If you choose it, building a life around chips on your shoulder is easy. It’s how cynics are made. Those real and perceived injustices give you stories and excuses. Reasons not to open up or try again. Not to let anyone get too close.
But seeing life through that lens is costly: lack of freedom, missed connections, and the grace you might have given yourself and others if you hadn’t spent so much time keeping score and holding grudges.
I’ve come to understand that resentment is just another way of staying stuck in the past. It anchors you; buries you; keeps you reliving things that don’t deserve any more of your time or attention.
To be clear, I’m not talking about excusing abuse or inviting back people who’ve proven they don’t deserve your trust. But there’s also a difference between healing and pretending. Between boundaries and bitterness.
Carrying hate around like it’s armor doesn’t protect you. It just hardens you. And it robs you of the chance to see what else your life could be if you put it down and walk away.
If any of this resonates with you, I wrote a book you might appreciate.
I don’t think we talk enough about how heavy it is to carry these small, sharp stories from our past. Especially as men. Especially if we’ve built part of our identity around being the guy who doesn’t forget who hurt him. Who remembers the slights. Who stays “tough.”
But I’m not sure toughness has anything to do with it.
I think real strength is letting go. Choosing to move forward without dragging every insult, injury, or injustice behind you.
That cousin and I are fine now. Better than fine, actually. She grew up. I grew up. We’ve both lived enough life to know that the rock never really mattered. What mattered was what I did with the memory.
And I’m trying —almost every day, in little ways — not to carry that kind of weight anymore. Not just with her, but with everyone. Including myself.
So when I catch myself clenching over something from years ago, or even just days ago, I ask: Is this still worth holding onto?
More often than not, the answer is no.
And that is enough.
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