23. Healing and Forgiveness – Part II: "What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger" (Or Does It?)

It was Friedrich Nietzsche – the 19th-century German philosopher, poet, and world-class overthinker – once proclaimed, “What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.” A bold statement, penned in his 1888 work Twilight of the Idols, which, ironically, Nietzsche himself wrote while teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown. (So, you know, maybe he had some doubts about his own philosophy.)

This phrase has since been trotted out by gym instructors, motivational speakers, and well-meaning but slightly insufferable friends who think a platitude can cure everything from heartbreak to bankruptcy. The idea? That every struggle, every hardship, every humiliating moment of tripping over your own feet in public is somehow fortifying your character, chiseling you into a warrior of resilience.

The fact is - some things don’t make you stronger. Some things leave you curled up in the fetal position, questioning your life choices. Trauma? That doesn’t always come with a free set of emotional abs. In fact, for many, setbacks don’t turn them into warriors; they turn them into therapy regulars. PTSD, anxiety, depression—these aren’t just inconvenient side effects of a “strengthening” process. They’re real, lasting consequences.

Sure, hardship can teach us valuable lessons—sometimes we do come out wiser and tougher. But let’s be honest: blindly insisting that every challenge makes us stronger can do real damage. In my experience, it’s not just about resilience; it’s about recognising the scars, too. For me, it's crucial to acknowledge that my time at TSS wasn’t some character-building exercise—it was the root of my trauma. Its mark isn’t a badge of strength; it’s a weight I carry, one that will always be part of me.

While my trauma didn’t kill me, there were times I believed that making it disappear—permanently—was the only way forward. The strength to keep going didn’t come from the suffering itself; it came from within me and from the loved ones who refused to let me face it alone. But trauma doesn’t just stay in one place—it seeps into the lives of those around you, all too eager to leave its mark on them, too.

Let’s just say I have a healthy skepticism (read: deep mistrust) for anyone who chirps, “Everything happens for a reason,” or worse, shrugs and mutters, “It is what it is.” Really?

That’s the best we’ve got? If that’s wisdom, I’d rather stay ignorant.

What is Forgiveness? (And How Do You Forgive When There’s No Remorse?)

Forgiveness is one of those lofty ideals that sounds great in theory—like drinking eight glasses of water a day or actually reading the terms and conditions before clicking “I agree.” People love to say “forgiveness is for you, not them,” as if it’s some magical key to inner peace.

But let’s be real: how do you forgive an institution that has shown time and time again that it values enrolments over ethics, money over morality, and silence over accountability?

How do you forgive The Anglican Church Southern Queensland or The Southport School (TSS) when their version of crisis management has been less about justice and more about damage control? When they’ve consistently chosen reputation over responsibility? When they have, historically, not only failed to report child abusers but actively looked the other way?

Forgiveness, we’re told, is about moving forward. But how do you move forward when the very people who caused the harm refuse to acknowledge it? When they spin PR statements instead of taking real action? When they offer “thoughts and prayers” but not transparency or accountability?

Forgiveness, for me, isn’t about absolving these institutions of their sins. It’s not about pretending the past didn’t happen or that the damage they caused isn’t real. It’s about refusing to let their moral failure define my future. It’s about recognising that my healing is mine—and that no amount of waiting for them to “do the right thing” is going to change what’s already been done.

So, can I forgive them? Should I? And more importantly—do they even deserve it?

It's a resounding 'fuck no' from me.