“When Karma Isn’t Justice—It’s Just Sad”

People talk about karma like it’s a courtroom verdict.
Like it’s the sound of the gavel slamming down on someone else’s mess.
But when you’ve lived long enough, loved deep enough, and lost hard enough,
you realize something:
Karma doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels like a funeral.

Because when someone who hurt you finally starts to hurt themselves—
not out of growth, but consequence—
you don’t cheer. You just sit there… haunted.

And yeah, they may be reaping what they sowed.
But I’ve started to wonder—
were they ever given good seeds?

Did they ever learn how to plant?
Or did fear teach them to dig shallow graves where roots could never take?
Did cruelty teach them to pull up every good thing before it bloomed,
because they thought beauty was a lie?

See, no one’s born cruel.
They’re born soft. Curious. Craving connection.
But fear...
Fear carves its name into bone.
It whispers lies so often they become survival.
And cruelty?
Cruelty is just fear with a weapon and no one to put it down.

And so they lash out.
And destroy.
And lie.
And manipulate.
And when the consequences come, they don’t always understand what’s happening.
They just feel the walls closing in and think they’re cursed.
But really, they’re just meeting the end of their own echo.

And that… that’s the part that breaks me.

Because even though they may have hurt me—deeply, intentionally—
I can’t help but see the scared child in their eyes.
The one who never got the love they needed.
The one who never knew what safe felt like.
The one who never saw someone grow something good and believe they could too.

But here’s the even harder part—
Sometimes that person hates you.
Resents you.
Wishes you would fail.
You were never their safe place.
But the truth is...
They were never yours either.

They were supposed to be.
They had a responsibility.
To protect.
To guide.
To honor the role they held in your life.
And they didn't.
Not to you. Not to others.
They shrugged it off.
Or worse—weaponized it.

And even then—even then—when life finally serves them their consequences…
it still hurts to watch.

You feel like a fool for caring.
Like you should be stronger.
Colder.
Less human.
But you’re not. And thank God for that.

Because even when they can’t love you—
even when they hate you—
you can still stand in truth, with a heart that hasn’t calcified.
You can still hurt for them without letting them back in.

And here’s what wrecks you in the quiet moments:
At the end of it all, you may be one more thing that hurts them.
Not because you lashed out,
but because you finally drew a line in the sand.
Because you said, “No more.”
Because you backed away when they wouldn't reach forward.
And because you stopped bleeding on their behalf when they never brought a bandage.

But you can’t save someone who’s drowning in their own denial.
You can’t heal someone who spits out every bit of medicine.
And you sure as hell can’t keep setting yourself on fire
hoping they'll notice the warmth.

So you do what they won’t.
What they never did.
You choose peace.
You choose distance.
You choose to stop handing out your soul like it’s a buffet plate.

Because grace isn’t about permission.
It’s about perception.
It’s about seeing the full picture and choosing not to become part of the same cycle.

You don’t owe them forgiveness they’ll never ask for.
But you do owe yourself peace.
And peace doesn’t come from revenge.
It comes from knowing you didn’t become like them.

That your tears are sacred.
That your ache means you’re still alive inside.
That somewhere along the way, you took your pain,
and planted something softer.

And maybe—just maybe—
that’s not justice.
That’s redemption.
The kind that doesn’t need applause or proof—
just a heart that’s still open,
and hands that chose not to throw stones.