Rest and Forgiveness: Learning to Rest from the Weight of Regret

How do we find peace when our past still follows us around like a shadow?

There’s a kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix.

It’s the kind that lives in the chest, not the bones. A heaviness born not from long days, but long memories—of what we did, what we didn’t do, what we should have said, what we can’t undo.

In Kenya, we speak often about forgiveness in religious spaces. We quote Bible verses, sing worship songs, and talk about letting go. But in real life? We carry regret like it’s a form of atonement.

We believe that if we suffer enough under the weight of what we did wrong, we’ll somehow earn peace.

But what if real rest is learning to forgive yourself?

“If I Had Just…”

You know the script:

If I had gone to visit before they died…
If I had stayed in that marriage, maybe the kids would be okay…
If I had gone for that job interview, I wouldn’t be struggling this much now…
If I hadn’t snapped at my mum that day…

Regret sounds like a constant whisper in your head. It edits your memories, floods your thoughts when you lie down to rest, and creeps in just when you’re about to enjoy something good.

You can be sitting in a matatu or lying in bed at 2 a.m., and suddenly—there it is again. That thing you wish you had done differently.

The Kenyan Layer: Culture, Silence, and Pressure

In Kenya, forgiveness is often taught as something we give to others—but not ourselves.

We are raised to be responsible, obedient, respectful. So when we fail—especially when our choices affect others—it feels like we’ve broken something sacred. And instead of grace, we receive silence. Distance. Sometimes even exile.

We learn to punish ourselves in subtle ways:

Refusing to pursue joy (“I don’t deserve happiness”)
Isolating from people who remind us of what we lost
Overworking to prove our worth again
Choosing suffering over rest, because rest feels too kind

But forgiveness is not about pretending it didn’t happen. It’s about saying: I’ve suffered enough. It’s time to live again.

The Mental Toll of Carrying Regret

When we don’t forgive ourselves, it shows up in our bodies and minds:

Insomnia – because your mind keeps replaying old mistakes.
Low self-esteem – because you judge yourself by the worst thing you’ve ever done.
Burnout – because you keep over-functioning to avoid stillness.
Bitterness – because you start resenting others who seem to have “moved on.”
Self-sabotage – because joy feels like betrayal of your past.

This isn’t just spiritual—it’s emotional survival. And it affects our ability to rest deeply.

What Does Rest After Regret Look Like?

Telling the truth – Not excuses. Not denial. Just honesty: Yes, I did that. Yes, I wish I hadn’t.
Naming the loss – Sometimes we can’t forgive ourselves because we haven’t grieved what was lost: a relationship, a season of life, a version of ourselves.
Learning the lesson – Regret without learning becomes punishment. But learning transforms it into wisdom.
Choosing softness – Speak to yourself like you would a friend. We are often cruelest to ourselves.
Letting joy in again – Start with small things. A cup of chai. A walk. A book. A laugh.
Setting boundaries with guilt – You don’t owe anyone your constant sorrow. You are allowed to live.

A Kenyan Reflection: Regret Isn’t Always a Moral Failure

Some regrets in Kenya are structural, not just personal.

You didn’t finish school because fees wasn’t there.
You didn’t chase a dream because survival came first.
You hurt people because you didn’t have the tools or support to do better.

Sometimes, regret is born from navigating an unfair world. That, too, deserves compassion.

Forgiveness Isn’t the End—It’s the Beginning of Rest

You are allowed to stop punishing yourself.

You are allowed to be more than your worst moment.
You are allowed to live a full life—imperfect, yes—but still worthy of rest, love, and softness.

Letting go of regret is not forgetting. It’s choosing to live forward.

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If Jomo Kenyatta was the founding father, Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi was the long-reigning stepfather — sometimes protective, often punitive, and almost always enigmatic. He ruled Kenya for 24 years, the longest of any president to date. To some, he was the gentle teacher, Mwalimu , who kept the nation from tearing apart. To others, he was the architect of a surveillance state, a master of patronage and fear, the man who perfected repression through calm. This is a portrait of Daniel Arap Moi — not just as a ruler, but as a man shaped by modest beginnings, colonial violence, and the hunger for order in a chaotic time. Early Life: The Boy from Sacho Daniel Arap Moi was born on September 2, 1924, in Kurieng’wo, Baringo, in Kenya’s Rift Valley. He came from the Tugen sub-group of the Kalenjin community. His father died when he was just four. Raised by his uncle, Moi’s early life was marked by hardship, discipline, and deep Christian missionary influence. He trained as a teacher at Tambach ...

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