How does one move away from bitterness?

Slowly. Kicking and screaming, if we’re being honest.

Because bitterness doesn’t just walk out the door like a bad Tinder date. No, it unpacks its bags, redecorates the guest room, and starts using your toothbrush. And the worst part? You don’t even remember inviting it in.

This came up in a conversation I had recently with a dear friend—someone whose heart I admire, whose strength I see even when they can’t. They’ve been carrying something heavy lately. And as we talked, it hit me just how familiar their pain was. Not just because I’ve felt it too, but because at some point or another… we all do.

We all come to that question.

How do I deal with this?

How do I not let it harden me?

How do I let it go before it eats me alive?

Bitterness is seductive. It pretends to be your emotional security system—always alert, always justified, always ready to whisper, “See? This is why we don’t trust people.”

But the truth is, bitterness isn’t protecting you.

It’s just preserving your pain. Pickled grief. Aged resentment. Trauma, on tap.

I know bitterness. I’ve sipped it in motel rooms with busted locks and walked with it for miles when the only other company was the sound of my own heavy breathing and the voice in my head saying, “This isn’t fair.” And you know what? It wasn’t fair.

But carrying bitterness didn’t make it less unfair.

It just made me heavier.

See, bitterness starts as a reaction to something real—betrayal, heartbreak, injustice. But it calcifies. It builds scar tissue over our softness. It makes cynics out of poets and loners out of lovers. And if you’re not careful, it’ll convince you that hope is for suckers and healing is a scam. That trust is naïve. That kindness is for people who haven’t been burned yet.

But here’s the twist:

You don’t have to forgive the person who hurt you to move away from bitterness. You just have to forgive yourself for staying in the room with it for so long.

Bitterness tells you you’re strong because you survived.

But strength isn’t holding the grudge.

Strength is putting it down.

And here’s where the humor slips in—because healing is messy. It doesn’t look like yoga poses and green juice. It looks like screaming into a pillow, crying over a text from three years ago, and maybe rage-eating a Costco-sized bag of kettle chips while you journal about inner peace.

It looks like one day realizing that the person who hurt you doesn’t even think about you, and somehow that stings more than the original wound. (Because let’s be real, if I’m going to suffer, the least they could do is also be losing sleep. The audacity of their peace.)

But you know what bitterness doesn’t expect?

That you’ll outgrow it.

That you’ll stop letting it define you.

That you’ll take that pain, stitch it into a story, and carry it forward—not as a weapon, but as wisdom.

Moving away from bitterness isn’t linear. It’s not a one-time choice. It’s a thousand tiny decisions to choose light over weight.

To say “I’m not okay,” and also, “But I’m working on it.”

To find joy without guilt.

To laugh in the middle of grief.

To keep walking, bandaged and booted, guided by grace and maybe a little duct tape, toward something softer than survival.

And if you ever forget how? Just know this:

Bitterness is a lousy travel companion.

Hope, humor, and healing?

They pack lighter.

And they don’t steal your damn toothbrush.