“my mercy prevails over my wrath”

The quote “My mercy prevails over my wrath,” spoken by Rick Grimes (Ricky Dicky Doo Da) in The Walking Dead, a tv show my girlfriend and I have been eating up recently, I do think it originally comes from Islamic teachings but feels like it was written for me, I can’t stop thinking about it. It resonates because I’ve spent much of my life living in the tension between softness and steel, mercy and wrath. It’s not just a lofty idea about forgiveness; it’s a challenge to ask yourself, “Am I proud of the person I’ve become?”

As a child, I was painfully sensitive—too attuned to the world around me, too emotionally exposed. Everything felt overwhelming, and I carried my emotions like heavy stones, unsure how to deal with them. But the world didn’t seem to make room for that version of me. Sensitivity was something to outgrow, something to hide. And so, I did. I learned to bury it, to appear stronger, more in control.

And yet, there are moments in life when I’m forced to face that buried softness again. Moments when the hurt that I’ve carried for so long rises to the surface. There are people in my life who have shaped me, who’ve taught me how to protect myself, but also how to close myself off. There’s this deep-seated belief that I need to be harsh to survive—more ruthless, more unforgiving. To push forward, to achieve, to become someone who doesn’t have to rely on anyone.

But with this mindset comes a cost. Wrath feels powerful, but it burns. It’s exhausting. It doesn’t build—it destroys. And in the wake of that destruction, I wonder: What am I left with?

I see this tension in myself all the time, particularly in my work. As a theatre producer, success often seems to demand an unyielding edge—a certain ruthlessness in decision-making, a willingness to do what others won’t. And there’s truth in that. I’ve found success by making tough calls, by embracing the fire. But there’s also a quiet part of me that knows mercy is the harder choice, the braver one.

Mercy isn’t about letting go of ambition or strength. It’s not about weakness. It’s about knowing when to soften, when to let go of the anger or hurt that you’ve held onto for so long. Mercy is a choice—a choice to forgive, to heal, and to move forward, even when it feels like you don’t deserve it. It’s the choice to show grace to others, but also to show grace to yourself.

And it’s that grace that I’ve been struggling to find. It’s so much easier to stay in the realm of wrath, to keep the walls up, to let bitterness and frustration define me. But I’ve come to realize that without mercy, there’s no warmth in life. No peace. No way to heal the wounds that time and experience have left.

I’m still learning what that balance looks like, especially when the path to forgiveness feels unclear. Some days, I can feel mercy creeping in, and it feels like a gentle, difficult thing. Other days, wrath feels more natural, more immediate. But I know I can’t let it win. Mercy, after all, isn’t the absence of strength. It’s the wisdom to know when to stop fighting, when to let go, when to soften in a world that often demands hardness.

Perhaps that’s where healing begins—in the choice to let mercy prevail.