Hangboarding is a lonely sport.
You stand beneath a wooden board bolted to your wall, reach up to shallow edges, and hang. No one cheers. No one watches. Your only company is a timer, a few fingers, and the quiet voice inside your head that asks: Why are you still holding on?
I've been asking myself that question a lot lately. Not just about hangboarding. About kindness.
The Hurt That Changed My Grip
I am someone with strong principles. In relationships, I value honesty above almost everything else. I communicate openly. I expect the same in return. I don't think that's too much to ask.
But life doesn't always respect what we ask for.
Someone important to me—someone whose trust I valued deeply—chose to hide things from me. Not once. Several times. Small things at first, then bigger ones. Each discovery chipped away at something I thought was solid. Eventually, I couldn't recognize the foundation beneath my feet anymore.
Trust, once broken, doesn't just heal because you want it to.
I struggled. For weeks, I turned the questions over in my mind: Why wasn't I worth the truth? Did I do something wrong? Could I have been clearer?
But the hardest question wasn't about them. It was about me.
After being hurt like this, do I still want to be kind?
Hangboarding Taught Me the Difference Between Holding On and Clinging
Here's what hangboarding teaches you: there is a difference between a controlled hold and a desperate clamp.
When you hang properly, your shoulders engage. Your breathing stays steady. You know when to release before your fingers fail. A good hang is strong, but it's also intelligent. It knows its limit.
A desperate clamp, on the other hand, is fear-based. You grip until your tendons scream. You refuse to let go even when your body is begging you to stop. That's not strength. That's panic disguised as persistence.
For months after the betrayal, I was clamping. I kept replaying conversations. I tried to understand their side, their weaknesses, their fears. I didn't want to blame them. I genuinely saw their struggles—their own wounds, their own reasons for hiding the truth.
But somewhere along the way, my empathy stopped being a choice and started being a cage. I was holding on so tightly to understanding them that I forgot to let go of the pain.
Why Stay Kind When You've Been Hurt?
That was the question I couldn't answer.
If I stay kind, does that mean I'm weak? If I still wish them well after everything they did, does that mean I'm tolerating what happened? If I don't punish them, will they ever learn?
I wrestled with this for a long time. Then something shifted.
I realized that my kindness was never for them. Not really.
I chose to be kind not because they deserved it. Not because I wanted them back. Not because I was hoping for an apology that would never come.
I chose to be kind because that's who I am. Not the version of me that was hurt. Not the version that wanted revenge or cold silence. But the deeper version—the one that existed before the betrayal, and the one that will continue to exist long after.
In hangboarding terms, I stopped clamping. I started holding with intention.
The Most Honest Kind of Release
In the end, I made the difficult decision to separate from this person. Not out of anger. Out of self-respect. Because trust is not a suggestion—it's the floor of the whole building. And once that floor is cracked too many times, no amount of wishing can make it safe to stand on.
But here is what surprised me: even after choosing to walk away, I didn't want to hurt them.
I still saw their fragility. I still understood, on some level, why they did what they did. Their pain didn't excuse the lies. But it explained them. And understanding is not the same as forgiving. It's just... seeing.
So I did the only thing that felt true to my nature. I gave them the best gift I had left: sincere goodwill.
Not because I expected anything in return. Not because I wanted to be the "bigger person" for a trophy. But because our shared history was real. The good moments were real. And I refuse to rewrite the past just because the present hurts.
No Purpose. Just Kindness.
You might ask: What's the point? Why help someone who hurt you? Why wish them well when they didn't protect your heart?
My answer is simple: there is no point.
And that's exactly why it matters.
Kindness with a purpose isn't kindness—it's a transaction. True kindness is the kind that doesn't ask for receipts. It's the kind you give when no one is watching, when no one will thank you, when the other person may never even know.
I don't need them to change. I don't need an apology. I don't need closure tied in a bow.
I just want us both to be okay. Separately. Honestly. Fully.
They carry their journey. I carry mine. And somewhere deep down, I hope they find the peace they were looking for. Not because they earned it from me. But because everyone deserves to land softly, eventually.
Falling Is Not Failure
Here's what hangboarding and heartbreak share: you will fall. That's not the question. The question is how you prepare for the next hang.
Some people fall and decide the board is the enemy. They walk away bitter, convinced that holding on was the mistake. Others fall and blame themselves, hanging the same wrong way over and over, hoping pain will turn into progress just by sheer repetition.
But the best climbers I know do something different. They fall. They note what broke. They rest. Then they walk back to the board, adjust their grip, and try again—not with less heart, but with more awareness.
That's where I am now.
I was hurt. I lost trust in someone I loved respecting. I tried to hold on longer than I should have. And when I finally let go, I didn't crash. I placed my feet on the ground, caught my breath, and looked up.
The board is still there. So am I.
The Only Rule That Matters
I don't know if I'll ever fully trust the same way again. Maybe that part of me is different now. Maybe that's not entirely a bad thing.
But here's what I know for sure: I still want to be kind.
Not because the world deserves it. Not because people won't hurt me again. But because the moment I let someone else's dishonesty turn me into someone I don't recognize—that's the moment they actually win.
And I refuse to give them that.
So I will keep being honest. I will keep communicating openly. I will keep showing up with a sincere heart, even knowing it might get bruised again.
And when I hang from that board late at night, alone with my thoughts, I will remember: strength is not about never falling. It's about choosing, each time, to hold on with intention—and let go with grace.
Final Thoughts for the Fellow Traveler
If you're reading this and you've been hurt by someone you trusted—I see you. I know how heavy that question feels: Should I still be kind?
There's no right answer. But here's mine.
Be kind because it's yours. Not because they earned it. Not because it fixes anything. But because kindness, real kindness, doesn't need a reason. It just is.
Wish them well. Not for them. For the person you want to remain.
The shared path was real. The good days were real. And you don't have to burn the whole forest just because one tree fell.
Keep climbing. Keep holding. And when it's time, keep letting go—gently, completely, and with your heart still intact.
Yours,
A fellow climber still learning to be kind