Why do I hold grudges?

By Alexander Krasnobaev, who builds Leela Online · Video and full transcript · Published October 2026

The full transcript of the video, chapter by chapter.

Why do I hold grudges?

You still remember who didn’t wish you a happy birthday. Not this year. Three years ago. You remember the quiet phone, and what you told yourself: it’s fine, people are busy.

That is what a grudge is. It isn’t a decision to stay angry. It’s a list that keeps itself while you’re still waiting for something.

You expected something from someone, and you never quite said it. So every time it doesn’t come, an entry writes itself. And when care does come, nothing writes it down.

You may have heard a grudge called a shield, or a way of keeping score. Both fit. And the score only records one thing: what didn’t come. A call that did come, a coffee someone brought you: neither is a miss, so there’s nothing to write. The misses stay, with the date and the exact words. Over time, they get sharper and the care gets blurry, and not because there was less of it.

So how long can a list like that keep going?

Why do I hold grudges for so long?

As long as you’re waiting for one particular answer. Time doesn’t close it. Neither does understanding.

A man I’ll call Daniel answered questions about a woman he’d been close to, in writing. He was sure he knew something she had done. She never admitted it, and there was no way, he wrote, to talk about it honestly.

Asked for the one sentence he most wanted to say to her, he wrote: I understand why you won’t talk about it, but my resentment doesn’t go away just because I understand.

Then he was asked: what if she did explain, and her reason was different from his version? He wrote: I probably won’t accept that answer right away. I’ll count it as an excuse.

That’s how a grudge lasts. It’s waiting for one answer, and every other answer gets filed as an excuse. Months go by, then years, and nothing gets crossed off.

And while it waits for that one answer, even the smallest things get written in.

Why do I hold grudges over small things?

Because the list doesn’t weigh the thing. It weighs what you were waiting for when the thing happened.

A friend says, we should catch up soon, and then never does. Your partner forgets to ask how the interview went. Someone checks their phone halfway through the thing you finally worked up the nerve to tell them. From the outside, each one is nothing. People call it petty, and part of you agrees.

But what you were waiting for wasn’t small. It was, do I matter to you? Am I someone you think about when I’m not in the room? A forgotten question weighs exactly as much as that.

That’s also why you hold grudges so easily. The filing takes half a second, and you never decided anything.

And the person you expect the most from without ever saying it is usually the one you come home to.

Why do I hold grudges against my partner?

Because with a partner, the waiting is the biggest, and the least spoken. You don’t say, I need you to want this. You say, fine, and the list takes it from there.

A woman I’ll call Megan answered the same kind of questions, about her marriage. She wanted to feel cared for the way she cares, and she knew exactly what that looked like. Offer to have tea together. Just kiss me, without complaints about why I didn’t do it first. Talk to me about everything.

Then she was asked if her husband had done anything like that lately. She wrote: I can’t remember anything. And right after it: I remember I asked him to stay with our son for a little while, so I could do my own things. He did it with no desire at all, and it hurt. Because I rarely ask.

He said yes. He stayed with their son. He did what she asked, and it still went on the list. Because what she asked for was an hour. What she was waiting for, as I read it, was for him to want to give it. She asked for the small thing, and waited for the big one. And when you rarely ask, every ask carries all the ones you didn’t make.

Nobody here is a villain. He answered the request. The waiting was never in it.

So the usual advice is to forgive and move on. Why doesn’t that close it?

Why do I always hold grudges?

Because forgiving the entries doesn’t touch the waiting.

Another woman, I’ll call her Sophie, answered the same kind of questions. She wrote: I want to let go of the past, forgive everyone. Minutes later, everyone had become one person: forgive my mom. Then, in one sentence, she added what she wanted. I forgive my mom, and I want her to help me in life. Forgiveness and waiting, in one sentence. She meant both.

You can forgive every entry, and the next one still writes itself. So if you always hold grudges, it isn’t your temperament. It’s a waiting that never got a name.

So start there. Take one entry, not the biggest, the freshest. Finish one sentence about it: I was waiting for you to… I was waiting for you to ask how it went.

Then two options. Say it to them once, as a request rather than a charge. Or decide this person can’t give it, and stop waiting for it from them. That isn’t the same as forgiving them. It’s what finally lets the list close.

And if you’re sure you expect nothing from them anymore, look at the entry you remember best: the words, the date, their face. That much detail usually means part of you is still expecting an answer.

Then keep the other list on purpose, because it won’t keep itself. The call, the coffee, the hour someone gave you, even with a sigh.

So go back to that birthday. You still know who didn’t write. Now ask who did. If it takes you a while, it isn’t because nobody came. It’s because nobody was writing them down.

So take one name from that list, and finish the sentence today: I was waiting for you to…

Real sessions. Names and identifying details changed.