Six years ago this November, a couple days after my 26th birthday, my uncle was shot and killed. I don’t often think about it. In fact, most days I just lock it away in the deep recesses of my mind. I seal any emotionally draining thoughts inside a vault of ironclad stoicism just so I can function. I do this so I don’t break down. Reality can be harsh sometimes. I stare in the mirror and wonder what it truly means to forgive.  And can’t seem to come up with an answer. Somewhere, deep inside me, it feels like defeat to say “Hey, I forgive you for murdering my uncle…