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Forgiveness isn’t a destination. It’s a journey. Mine began on an escalator at Berlin Brandenburg airport. It was a Sunday afternoon. I was heading up to the check-in counters for my return flight to Istanbul, where I’ve lived for the past few years. On the other side, people were heading down – fresh off flights into Berlin. I was daydreaming, my eyes drifting across bags and figures, when I paused at a brown leather bag and a light linen suit. Charming travel outfit, I thought. Relaxed. Timeless. Someone must’ve had a lovely weekend, maybe somewhere on the Mediterranean. I only saw the man’s face as he passed me – and suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
I knew him. He was my father.
Had he seen me, too? Unlikely. Who expects to run into their estranged daughter, whom they haven’t seen in years, on an airport escalator? For a moment, I thought about turning around, going back down, catching up with him and simply saying hello. But there was too much between us for a casual hello. And somehow, I liked the almost cinematic quality of the scene. We had, unknowingly, shared a moment – one that was tender, peaceful.
For the first time, I looked at my father differently. I didn’t see the man whose absence I’ve been trying to come to terms with since childhood. Here at Berlin airport, in all its unpredictability, he became just one of many. Someone who, like me, travels on Sundays, prefers a leather bag over 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 her father without warning – and spent 40 years trapped 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 that kind of bullshit. Life is too short. And the restitution we’re hoping for doesn’t come from the person who hurt us – it only comes through ‘active love’.”
How does that work? Close your eyes. Imagine being surrounded by a universe of love. Let it fill your heart. Yes, yes – don’t laugh. Stay with it. Once you’re bursting with this imagined energy, think of the person you’re angry with. And then: send them everything. Every ounce of love you carry. Watch it reach them. And finally, in your mind, merge with them – become one. That kind of love, says Stutz, is the only way out of the maze.
When I first watched the documentary 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 becoming one with him? No way.
After our encounter at the airport, something shifted. I was ready to let go and forgive. When I came back 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 to fall back into old patterns and kept telling myself: think of the airport. Don’t expect anything. You are just having lunch with someone.
It sounded 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 wanted, quite literally, to reach the end of the escalator and step on to the next plateau.
I grew up in Leipzig with my mother, knowing only my father’s name. He 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 home town, Berlin. He was a stranger – and at the same time, he looked just like me.
In the years that followed, we kept trying to build some kind of relationship. We’d meet but afterwards I’d be swallowed up again by old anger and pain, and I’d cut off 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 over everything that went wrong were louder than the present. Louder than the fact that I was no longer a child – and, to be fair, there wasn’t any way he could undo his absence. That was our story. But did the future have to stay that way?
The South African psychologist Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela believes forgiveness requires openness. You have to move beyond yourself – and that’s what makes forgiveness so unsettling. Many, she says, are afraid of what the process might stir up and change within them. Afraid of losing their identity – and with it, everything tied to that role. As twisted as it sounds, that role is also a kind of comfort zone.
I believe that’s also true for the person who did wrong. We are stubborn creatures. I know that 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 fierce fight during a night out that ended with me calling her an expletive on the dancefloor – and her storming off, with the words: “How dare you!”
Looking back, the cause of the fight – about a mutual friend – was embarrassingly banal. But I think that’s often the case. Most everyday conflicts arise from a lack of understanding and generosity.
The worst part? The morning after our fight, I didn’t feel bad at all. No – I felt right. Sure, I’d gone too far in tone. But I was convinced: if anyone owed anyone an apology, it was Lara.
Two days later, I wrote to her anyway, asking if we could talk. Classic move: I wanted to be the bigger person. She replied: “I need time.”
We didn’t speak for almost four weeks. I flew to Berlin for work, kept thinking about her, noticing how my feelings began to shift. 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 my way back to Istanbul, I messaged her: “Can we meet as soon as I land?” She replied: “Of course.” And: “I miss you like crazy.”
The moment she walked in, it burst out of me: I’m so sorry. We sat on my balcony. It turned into a long, honest conversation – one that forced me to confront my own shortcomings. I wanted to apologise, but I also wanted to know how she had felt that night, what it had revealed to her about me, and how she had 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’d dominate the conversation, and I wouldn’t get a word in. It wouldn’t have been a conversation on equal footing – and I didn’t want that.”
In that moment, Lara saw me more clearly than I could see myself.
I think we both always knew this fight wouldn’t be the end of our friendship. But it was a turning point. It forced us to look at each other – and at ourselves. Or in Lara’s words: “That’s how you learn to love.”
In hindsight, I’m grateful for this experience. Life is messy. 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 has even visited me in Istanbul. And yes, I’ve forgiven him. But it’s still a practice. One meeting at a time. Don’t assign too much meaning. Stay light. Let’s see where we can go.
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Carolin Würfel is a writer, screenwriter and journalist who lives in Berlin and Istanbul. She is the author of Three Women Dreamed of Socialism
