I could not forgive the father who left me. Until a chance encounter changed my outlook | Carolin Würfel

Fforgiveness is not a destination. It’s a journey. Mine started on an escalator at Berlin Brandenburg Airport. It was a Sunday afternoon. I was heading to the check-in counters for my flight back to Istanbul, where I have lived for a few years. On the other side, people were getting off – fresh from flights to Berlin. I was daydreaming, my eyes drifting over bags and figurines, when I stopped in front of a brown leather bag and a light linen suit. Lovely travel outfit, I thought. Relaxed. Timeless. Someone must have had a nice weekend, perhaps somewhere on the Mediterranean. I only saw the man’s face as he passed me – and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

I knew him. It was my father.

Had he seen me too? Unlikely. Who expects to run into their ex-daughter, whom they haven’t seen for years, on an escalator at the airport? For a moment I thought about turning around, going back downstairs, catching up with him and just saying hello. But there was too much going on between us for a casual hello. And somehow I liked the almost cinematic quality of the scene. We had, without knowing it, shared a tender, peaceful moment.

For the first time, I looked at my father differently. I haven’t seen the man whose absence I’ve been trying to come to terms with since I was a child. Here at Berlin Airport, in all his unpredictability, he became just one among many. Someone who, like me, travels on Sunday, prefers a leather bag to a bulky suitcase and dresses casually. Someone you see on an escalator and think: nice guy. And that changed everything between us.

The American psychiatrist and therapist Phil Stutz knows this phenomenon. In the documentary Stutz, he describes how his own mother was abandoned by his father without warning and spent 40 years locked in a maze of anger and resentment. She refused to forgive him and held on to the pain. But Stutz is radical in this regard. He says: “We don’t have time for this kind of bullshit. Life is too short. And the repair we hope for doesn’t come from the person who hurt us, it only comes through ‘active love’.”

How does it work? Close your eyes. Imagine being surrounded by a universe of love. Let it fill your heart. Yes, yes, don’t laugh. Stick with it. Once you’re overflowing with this imaginary energy, think about the person you’re angry with. And then: send them everything. Every ounce of love you carry. Watch him reach them. And finally, in your mind, merge with them – become one. This kind of love, Stutz says, is the only way out of the labyrinth.

When I watched the documentary for the first time in 2022, I was fascinated. I tried the exercise. But when it came to my father, it seemed impossible. I was like Stutz’s mother. The child in me stomped and screamed: absolutely not. Sending love? Maybe. But to become one with him? Certainly not.

After we met at the airport, something changed. I was ready to let go and forgive. When I returned to Berlin a few weeks later, I sent him a message. We met at a Vietnamese restaurant. I still remember how nervous I was. I was afraid of falling back into old patterns and kept telling myself: think about the airport. Don’t expect anything. You’re just having lunch with someone.

It seemed easy – of course, it wasn’t. But I knew it was time to try something new. I was done being stuck in the maze. I literally wanted to reach the end of the escalator and get onto the next board.

I grew up in Leipzig with my mother, only knowing my father’s name. It was a shadow, not a real person. Shortly after my 14th birthday, I insisted on meeting him. I was a typical teenager searching for her identity. We met in his hometown, Berlin. He was a stranger – and at the same time, he looked like me.

In the years that followed, we continued to try to build some sort of relationship. We would meet, but then I would be swallowed up again by old anger and pain, and I would cut off all contact. I was stuck in the past: why didn’t you take care of me? Why didn’t you want to see me?

The accusations about everything that went wrong were louder than today. Stronger than the fact that I was no longer a child – and, to be honest, he had no way of making up for his absence. It was our story. But should the future stay this way?

South African psychologist Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela believes that forgiveness requires openness. You have to go beyond yourself – and that’s what makes forgiveness so troubling. Many, she said, are afraid of what the process might cause and change in them. Fear of losing their identity – and with it, everything related to that role. As twisted as it may seem, this role is also a kind of comfort zone.

I believe this is also true for the person who did the wrong. We are stubborn creatures. I know this from experience. In the spring, I was the one who had to ask for forgiveness.

The reason: My closest friend in Istanbul, Lara, and I had a heated argument at a party that ended with him being insulted on the dance floor – and storming out with the words: “How dare you!” »

In hindsight, the cause of the argument – ​​over a mutual friend – was embarrassingly trivial. But I think that’s often the case. Most daily conflicts come from a lack of understanding and generosity.

The worst? The day after our fight, I didn’t feel bad at all. No, I felt good. Of course, I had gone too far in tone. But I was convinced: if anyone owed anyone an apology, it was Lara.

Two days later, I wrote to him anyway to ask if we could talk. Classic move: I wanted to be the tallest person. She replied, “I need time.” »

We didn’t speak for almost four weeks. I flew to Berlin for work and continued to think about her, noticing how my feelings were beginning to change. Who was I to judge her?

Towards the end of the month, we started reacting to each other’s Instagram stories again. A heart here, a laughing emoji there. On the way back to Istanbul, I sent him a message: “Can we meet as soon as I land?” » She replied, “Of course. » And: “I miss you like crazy.”

The moment she walked in, I burst out: I’m so sorry. We sat on my balcony. It turned into a long, honest conversation – one that forced me to confront my own flaws. I wanted to apologize, but I also wanted to know how she felt that night, what it told her about me, and how she experienced the weeks that followed.

“You crossed a line that night,” she said. “And I knew I couldn’t see you right away. Less out of anger than out of self-protection. I knew that if we met, you would dominate the conversation and I wouldn’t have a word to say. It wouldn’t have been an equal conversation – and I didn’t want that.”

In that moment, Lara saw me more clearly than I saw myself.

I think we both always knew that this fight wouldn’t mark the end of our friendship. But it was a turning point. It forced us to look at each other – and ourselves. Or in Lara’s words: “That’s how you learn to love.” »

Looking back, I am grateful for the experience. Life is complicated. We all make mistakes. But we can also recover – and choose to act.

Since that lunch at the Vietnamese restaurant, my father and I have been texting regularly. When I’m in Berlin, we meet. He even visited me in Istanbul. And yes, I forgave him. But it remains a practice. One meeting at a time. Don’t assign too much meaning. Stay light. Let’s see where we can go.