At Brookline High School, I’ve seen how fast judgment moves. A screenshot shared in a group chat. A social media post misread out of context. A rumor morphing into a moral position before the truth has time to catch up. I’ve seen how quick we are to react, declare and distance ourselves. If I’m being honest, I’ve felt that impulse too—the tug to join in, to prove I know right from wrong by making sure everyone knows where I stand on a controversial topic.

Every day, we witness the mechanics of public judgment. A misstep—a poorly worded statement, a dated opinion or a long-forgotten mistake—is captured, circulated and condemned. This rhythm is familiar. First comes the exposure, then the swift moral distancing: denouncements and declarations of not where we stand, but where we don’t. Even before context is considered or nuance is explored, we often rush to respond.

Outrage is quick. It is frictionless. In the moment, it feels like virtue. We equate the performance of disapproval with moral clarity. But what we’re performing too often is not justice, but vengeance. In this environment, forgiveness isn’t just difficult—it’s countercultural.

It is easy to shame, cancel and label someone by their worst moment. It is much harder to believe that a person who has done harm is still capable of change. We often speak about progress, justice and accountability. But even more often, we seem to forget that the preconditions of these things are discomfort, patience and the radical belief that people can grow. We have come to treat imperfection as disqualifying. We respond to mistakes with exile, not engagement. Apologies are viewed with suspicion. Growth is demanded but rarely allowed. We want people to be better, but we offer them no room to do so.

Forgiveness, by contrast, is slow. It is unglamorous. It does not trend. Yet, it is essential to any society that wishes to evolve beyond punishment. Forgiveness neither excuses harm nor erases consequences. Rather, what it does is leave space for repair, reflection and return.

Accountability without the possibility of return is not accountability. It is disposal.

We are told to stand for justice, and rightly so. But we are seldom taught to sit with contradiction. The truth is that real progress does not emerge from purity, but tension. Disagreement, discomfort and contradiction are the soil from which the actual change in the world grows.

To forgive is not to move on. It is to remain in a relationship with truth, memory and complexity. It is to resist the instinct to flatten a person into a moment, and instead to ask: “What happens next?” or “How do we build from this, not just burn it down?” There is a quiet strength in giving someone the space to try again. There is courage in refusing to reduce a human being to their worst act. There is moral clarity in distinguishing between punishment and transformation. None of this is easy. It is far simpler to participate in the performance of moral outrage than to sit in the silence required for reflection. But simplicity is not the same as strength. Condemnation is not the same as conviction.

Outrage may satisfy the present. But forgiveness builds the future.

We must hold people accountable, yes. But we must also be willing to carry the weight of forgiveness. Not because everyone deserves it in the moment, but because a world without it leaves no path forward—for them, or for us.

At Brookline High School, we, the students, hold a remarkable amount of power when it comes to determining the environment we learn in. What do we want our environment to be? One that corrects with care or one that condemns for sport? One that sees people as capable of learning, or one that sees error as the final verdict?

The easy answer is outrage. The harder, yet more necessary, path is grace.

Forgiveness is not weakness. It is active, deliberate and demanding. It requires that we relinquish our need to be right in favor of being just and, more importantly, good. It asks that we acknowledge the full humanity of others, even when they fail us. We are not diminished by offering grace. We are expanded by it. And in a time when judgment comes fast and often without mercy, choosing forgiveness may be the most radical act of all.

At Brookline High School, I’ve seen how fast judgment moves. A screenshot shared in a group chat. A social media post misread out of context. A rumor morphing into a moral position before the truth has time to catch up. I’ve seen how quick we are to react, declare and distance ourselves. If I’m being honest, I’ve felt that impulse too—the tug to join in, to prove I know right from wrong by making sure everyone knows where I stand on a controversial topic.

Every day, we witness the mechanics of public judgment. A misstep—a poorly worded statement, a dated opinion or a long-forgotten mistake—is captured, circulated and condemned. This rhythm is familiar. First comes the exposure, then the swift moral distancing: denouncements and declarations of not where we stand, but where we don’t. Even before context is considered or nuance is explored, we often rush to respond.

Outrage is quick. It is frictionless. In the moment, it feels like virtue. We equate the performance of disapproval with moral clarity. But what we’re performing too often is not justice, but vengeance. In this environment, forgiveness isn’t just difficult—it’s countercultural.

It is easy to shame, cancel and label someone by their worst moment. It is much harder to believe that a person who has done harm is still capable of change. We often speak about progress, justice and accountability. But even more often, we seem to forget that the preconditions of these things are discomfort, patience and the radical belief that people can grow. We have come to treat imperfection as disqualifying. We respond to mistakes with exile, not engagement. Apologies are viewed with suspicion. Growth is demanded but rarely allowed. We want people to be better, but we offer them no room to do so.

Forgiveness, by contrast, is slow. It is unglamorous. It does not trend. Yet, it is essential to any society that wishes to evolve beyond punishment. Forgiveness neither excuses harm nor erases consequences. Rather, what it does is leave space for repair, reflection and return.

Accountability without the possibility of return is not accountability. It is disposal.

We are told to stand for justice, and rightly so. But we are seldom taught to sit with contradiction. The truth is that real progress does not emerge from purity, but tension. Disagreement, discomfort and contradiction are the soil from which the actual change in the world grows.

To forgive is not to move on. It is to remain in a relationship with truth, memory and complexity. It is to resist the instinct to flatten a person into a moment, and instead to ask: “What happens next?” or “How do we build from this, not just burn it down?” There is a quiet strength in giving someone the space to try again. There is courage in refusing to reduce a human being to their worst act. There is moral clarity in distinguishing between punishment and transformation. None of this is easy. It is far simpler to participate in the performance of moral outrage than to sit in the silence required for reflection. But simplicity is not the same as strength. Condemnation is not the same as conviction.

Outrage may satisfy the present. But forgiveness builds the future.

We must hold people accountable, yes. But we must also be willing to carry the weight of forgiveness. Not because everyone deserves it in the moment, but because a world without it leaves no path forward—for them, or for us.

At Brookline High School, we, the students, hold a remarkable amount of power when it comes to determining the environment we learn in. What do we want our environment to be? One that corrects with care or one that condemns for sport? One that sees people as capable of learning, or one that sees error as the final verdict?

The easy answer is outrage. The harder, yet more necessary, path is grace.

Forgiveness is not weakness. It is active, deliberate and demanding. It requires that we relinquish our need to be right in favor of being just and, more importantly, good. It asks that we acknowledge the full humanity of others, even when they fail us. We are not diminished by offering grace. We are expanded by it. And in a time when judgment comes fast and often without mercy, choosing forgiveness may be the most radical act of all.