“They Didn’t Mean to Hurt Me—But They Did”
“They didn’t mean to hurt me—but they did. And I don’t know where to put that. I keep telling myself they didn’t know better, or that they were doing their best. And maybe that’s true. But it still hurt. And I don’t know what to do with pain that doesn’t come with blame.”
Dear Casey,
That’s one of the hardest places to sit, isn’t it? When something hurt deeply, but there’s no clear villain, no malice, no obvious breach—just pain. It’s easier, in some ways, when someone is cruel. When the harm is sharp and intentional. That kind of pain gives you a place to direct your anger, a storyline that makes emotional sense. But this? This is more complicated.
Because what do you do with hurt that came dressed as care? What do you do when the person who caused it was trying—or at least, not trying to harm you? Where do you put that ache when there’s no betrayal, just a heartbreaking mismatch between their impact and their intention?
That’s what makes this kind of pain so disorienting. You want to be fair. You want to hold the nuance. You want to honor their humanity. But you also want to honor yours. And in this case, those two desires feel like they’re in conflict. You keep twisting it around in your head, trying to justify one without denying the other. But the math never quite works out.
Here’s the truth: intention matters. But it doesn’t erase impact.
They may not have meant to hurt you. That may be deeply true. But you were still hurt. And that pain deserves space, even if there’s no enemy to point to. Emotional wounds don’t require a verdict in order to be valid. They only require honesty.
You don’t have to decide whether they were “good” or “bad.” You don’t have to categorize the relationship as entirely harmful or entirely well-meaning. You can live in the gray. You can say, “They were doing their best, and it wasn’t enough.” You can say, “They loved me in the only way they knew how, and it still left me with scars.”
Sometimes the hardest grief is the kind that isn’t dramatic or abusive or loud. It’s the grief that comes from realizing that even people who love us can harm us. That not all wounds come from cruelty. Some come from ignorance. Or limitation. Or misattunement. And they still shape us.
You asked where to put it. Maybe the answer is: right here. In full view. Not buried. Not excused. Not turned into resentment—but not erased either. Pain without blame is still pain. And you don’t have to rationalize it away in order to keep your integrity intact.
There’s something sacred in holding this kind of pain gently. It asks you to stay present in complexity. To grieve what never quite worked, even if the person meant well. To let yourself feel the sting of being unseen or misunderstood without turning that into a story of bitterness or self-blame.
You don’t have to forgive quickly. You don’t have to confront them. You don’t even have to decide what the relationship means now. What matters is that you name your own experience with clarity and care.
You were hurt. It matters. And it’s okay not to know exactly what to do with that yet. Some truths don’t resolve. They settle slowly. They become part of your emotional landscape. And over time, they become easier to carry—not because they disappear, but because you stop demanding that they make perfect sense.
You’re allowed to feel what you feel. Even when the story is complicated. Especially then.
–RJ
Some truths don’t fit into categories. They just ask to be honored.