How to Hold a Grudge Gracefully
There’s this growing cultural obsession with “healing” and “letting things go” that honestly feels like propaganda. Everywhere you look, people are journaling, sipping matcha, lighting overpriced candles for “inner peace,” and pretending they don’t still think about that girl who called their outfit “interesting” in 2017. It’s almost sweet, this global cosplay of emotional detachment. Meanwhile, some of us are out here holding grudges with the consistency of a 10-step skincare routine. Not out of rage, but out of principle. Out of sport. Out of talent.
Being a hater, after all, isn’t impulsive; it’s archival. Because a good grudge isn’t chaotic; it’s curated. You store every micro-offense alphabetically, cross-referenced, tagged, and timestamped like a private Death Note of people who have tried you. You don’t send angry texts at midnight. You simply file the moment under “Noted Until Further Notice.” And the beauty is: no one even knows you’re doing it.
Your warmth only adds to the effect. You smile, ask about their job, laugh at their story, and they never realize that you still remember exactly what they did and why they remain permanently on your unpardonable list. That duality, that sweet exterior hiding a perfectly preserved archive of offenses, is elegance. Revenge isn’t for you anyway, too basic, too loud. But the one thing you will always have your hands firmly around is the grudge itself. It never slips. It never fades. It’s the one stable relationship in your life.
Communication only adds to the spectacle. You don’t ghost, that’s for people who lack artistry. You reply with that very specific messy-girl energy: the kind where the message is technically polite, but the timing, punctuation, and emotional temperature are all slightly off. Not enough to call out. Just enough to haunt them. You respond on Tuesday to a text from Friday with a casual “lol sorry I forgot,” fully knowing you didn’t forget, you just wanted the silence to marinate. Watching them unravel over a delayed “sure” is your version of meditation.
You keep grudges renewable, like houseplants you water once a month, just enough to keep them alive. A small eye roll when their name comes up, a sigh when someone mentions them, and the grudge stays fresh without any unnecessary chaos. Your boundaries become their own form of warfare: “Unfortunately, I can’t make it, but wishing you all the best!” delivered with the softness of a cashmere sweater and the falseness of a reality-TV apology. They know. You know. But it sounds pretty, and that’s the point. And if someone ever confronts you? You smile sweetly and say, “No, no, it’s fine.” It is absolutely not fine, but confirming that would ruin the mystique and mystery is part of your brand.
The one thing that you are willing to die on a hill for is that society was better when messy girls roamed free without being told to journal their feelings into oblivion. Back when showing up with smeared lipstick, chaotic energy, unresolved emotional arcs, and one very active personal vendetta wasn’t considered a “red flag,” it was just a Tuesday. Life used to have flavor. Drama wasn’t demonized; it was cardio. Your grudges aren’t petty; they’re personality. They’re narrative. They’re the thing that keeps your story interesting while everyone else is busy manifesting serenity in bathrooms that smell like eucalyptus and disappointment.
Graceful grudge-holding is an art, and unfortunately for absolutely everyone who has ever crossed you, you’re very, very gifted.
WRITTEN BY
Ilayda
For as long as I can remember, the question of belonging has lingered in the back of my mind. As a diaspora child, I carry the weight of leaving and the longing to find home in every place I go. So, I like to write about things that move me - music that lingers, films that haunt, words that stay long after the page is turned. I love to chase the moments that make me feel something.
