How Does Holding Grudges Affect Mental Health?

The portrayal of Thor wielding his hammer, Mjolnir, is one of the most iconic images in all of comics and films. One scene that always stands out to me is in 'Avengers: Endgame', during the climactic battle against Thanos. The sheer excitement of seeing Thor return, fully embracing the Odin-like mantle, is something that sent chills down my spine. As he calls upon Mjolnir, the hammer spirals through the air, connecting with his hand in the most epic fashion. The triumphant blasting of lightning as he charges into battle symbolizes not just his power but his resilience in the face of staggering odds. It's such a powerful moment, highlighting his character growth from 'The Dark World' to being a pillar of leadership among the Avengers. There’s something so satisfying about seeing him use both Mjolnir and Stormbreaker, and you can feel the weight of his journey as he owns his heritage as a God, more potent than ever. The camaraderie with Captain America, who wields Mjolnir for a brief moment, adds an additional layer of excitement and nostalgia, making it one of the most unforgettable moments in the MCU. Another scene that instantly comes to mind is from 'Thor: Ragnarok'. During the arena fight with the Hulk, Thor gets a chance to showcase not only raw power but his unyielding spirit. When he prepares to face off against the Hulk, there's this exhilarating moment where he spins Mjolnir, showcasing his strength and skill. And when he finally channels that energy, you can't help but cheer for him. It’s not just about the hammer; it's what it represents—a combination of his identity, his might, and his role as a protector. In that moment, Thor proves that he’s not just the God of Thunder; he can stand up to anyone, including a massive green behemoth. The blend of humor, action, and heartfelt stakes makes it a standout in his journey. These scenes are so much more than just heroic moments; they encapsulate the essence of what Thor represents to fans and the broader narrative of the Marvel universe.

Drawing hands holding can be quite challenging but super rewarding! I recommend starting with basic shapes to outline the hands. Think of the palm as a rectangle and the fingers as cylinders. Sketch lightly to get proportions right. Focus on the overlap of the fingers and how they wrap around the object. Using reference photos helps a lot too! Don’t forget to capture the details like knuckles and shading to give it depth. Practice is key, so give it a shot and enjoy the process!

There’s this thick, stubborn feeling people drag around after a breakup, and I think it’s more ordinary than dramatic: hurt doesn’t just vanish because two calendars say the relationship ended. For me, the grudge phase felt like a household item I couldn’t find the right place for — a sweater I kept meaning to toss but kept picking up when it smelled like the old apartment. That mix of betrayal, embarrassment, and the ache of lost plans lodges in your chest and keeps replaying scenes on repeat. On a clearer, brainy level, grudges come from attachment and identity. When someone who shared routines, jokes, and future maps leaves, you’re left recalibrating a life that had them as a reference point. That triggers rumination: the mind keeps running through “what ifs” and “if onlys.” Pride and fear also matter — admitting you were wrong, or that you were hurt, feels like losing an argument with yourself. Social media intensifies it; I’ve caught myself scrolling through mutual friends or old photos and feeling stung by the illusion that yesterday’s warmth is now someone else’s status update. For what it’s worth, holding a grudge can be a sign you still care — painfully, stubbornly. It’s also a heater that keeps you warm with imaginary justice. I learned that small rituals helped me unpack the feeling: deleting or archiving photos, writing unsent letters, or making a new routine that doesn’t orbit them. Sometimes the grudge fades; other times it becomes a lesson I carry. Either way, being honest with yourself about why you’re clinging to it feels like the first real step toward settling down again.

Sometimes I get so wrapped up in a show or comic that a character’s death lands like a personal betrayal, and I think that’s the root of a lot of grudges. I’m the sort of fan who re-reads scenes, bookmarks lines, and even keeps a tiny scrapbook of quotes from characters who mattered to me. When a writer kills someone off in a way that feels cheap—jump scare, shock-for-virality, or because of behind-the-scenes drama—it undercuts that investment. It’s not just sadness; it feels like the story owes you something and didn’t pay up. There’s also the issue of expectations versus delivery. If a death is handled with weight, purpose, and consequences—like a difficult, earned sacrifice—it can be cathartic. But when it’s used as a plot reset, to provoke a popular ship, or to pander to ratings, fans smell it. Social media amplifies the hurt into outrage: threads dissect motives, memes form, and old excuses from creators get replayed. I’ve watched entire forums fracture over one scene, and that fracture is a grudge in motion. Finally, deaths interact with identity. Some characters carry representation, childhood comfort, or community bonds. When those go, it can feel like an erasure. I’ve learned to channel that frustration into discussions about storytelling responsibility—what makes a death meaningful—and into recommending other works that do grief well, like 'The Last of Us' or certain stretches of 'One Piece'. Mostly I try to keep empathy at the center: creators can misstep, but listeners of stories also deserve that their emotional labor be treated with care.

There’s a stubborn, human logic behind why some societies end up treating grudges like normal currency: they help enforce boundaries and communicate what’s unacceptable. From my own family’s messy dinner-table dramas to books I devoured as a teen like 'The Count of Monte Cristo', I’ve watched how betrayal often becomes a story everyone tells and retells until resentment feels justified, almost codified. In some places, the line between personal honor and community expectation blurs; when reputation matters, holding a grudge can be a way to protect your standing and warn others against similar slights. That said, cultures vary widely. Some emphasize forgiveness and public reconciliation; others value indirect social sanctions or ritualized responses. I’ve lived in and visited communities where people never aired grievances in public but nursed them privately for years, and other places where legal systems and restorative practices push toward resolution. Social media muddles this further—micro-communities form quick moral judgments and can institutionalize grudges overnight. Personally, I try to separate the impulse to hold a grudge (which is often understandable and natural) from the strategy of it—how long it’s useful, who it protects, and whether it harms others. Cultural norms play a huge role in shaping that calculus. If you want to change a culture’s relationship to betrayal, the levers are storytelling, ritual, and institutions: encourage narratives of repair, create clear paths for apology, and design consequences that don’t require perpetual bitterness. It won’t erase the sting, but it can make grudges less of a default setting in daily life.

I've always been fascinated by art and history, and one of the paintings that stuck with me is the iconic portrait of Shakespeare holding a skull. That masterpiece was painted by John Taylor, who was a lesser-known artist but created something truly timeless. The way he captured Shakespeare's contemplative expression and the symbolism of the skull is just hauntingly beautiful. It makes you think about life, death, and the power of literature all at once. I remember seeing a reproduction of it in a museum once, and it gave me chills. The dark background, the delicate brushstrokes—it's one of those artworks that stays with you long after you've looked away.

'Holding the Man' paints LGBTQ+ relationships with raw honesty and tenderness, capturing both the euphoria and heartbreak of love. It follows Tim and John’s decades-long romance, from teenage infatuation to adulthood, battling societal homophobia and personal struggles. The novel doesn’t sanitize their journey—it shows the messy, passionate, and sometimes painful reality of queer love in the 70s and 80s. Their bond feels achingly real, whether they’re sneaking kisses or facing AIDS with courage. The book also highlights the resilience of LGBTQ+ communities during the AIDS crisis, weaving activism into their personal story. Tim’s wit and John’s quiet strength make their relationship dynamic and deeply human. It’s a tribute to love that endures prejudice, distance, and even death, refusing to be reduced to a tragedy. The portrayal is unflinching yet poetic, celebrating queer joy as much as it mourns loss.

I've lost count of how many times I've recommended 'Holding the Man' to friends—it's not just a love story, it's a visceral punch to the heart that lingers long after the last page. What makes it a cornerstone of LGBTQ+ literature isn't just its raw depiction of romance between two men in 1970s Australia, but how unflinchingly it captures the societal barriers they faced. The novel strips away any glamorized notion of coming out; instead, it shows the messy, painful reality of love enduring through prejudice, AIDS, and personal flaws. Timothy Conigrave’s writing isn’t polished or poetic—it’s urgent, like he’s scribbling truths too heavy to carry alone. That authenticity is why it resonates. You feel the weight of every stolen kiss in locker rooms, every terrified glance exchanged when homophobia rears its head, and the crushing grief of an epidemic that stole generations. It’s a time capsule of queer history, but also timeless because love and loss don’t expire. The relationship between Tim and John isn’t idealized—they cheat, they fight, they hurt each other—but that’s precisely why it’s revolutionary. LGBTQ+ stories often get boxed into tropes: tragic victims or sanitized heroes. 'Holding the Man' refuses that. These characters are flawed, selfish, achingly human. Their love isn’t a political statement; it’s just love, stubborn and imperfect. The AIDS crisis portion isn’t a subplot—it’s a gutting reality that shifts the tone from youthful recklessness to sobering mortality. The way Tim describes John’s illness isn’t with clinical detachment but with the specificity of someone memorizing every freckle, every labored breath. That intimacy turns statistics into heartbreak. The book’s legacy isn’t just in its awards or adaptations; it’s in how often you see it clutched in hands at Pride marches, passed between readers like a secret talisman. It’s a classic because it doesn’t ask for tolerance—it demands you feel something. What elevates it beyond memoir into cultural touchstone is its refusal to soften edges. The sex scenes aren’t coy; they’re awkward, exhilarating, sometimes funny. The family conflicts aren’t tidy resolutions but simmering tensions that never fully dissipate. Even the title—'Holding the Man'—isn’t some grand metaphor. It’s literal: John was a rugby player, and Tim would hold his hand during games, defying jeers from the stands. That small act of rebellion encapsulates the novel’s power. It’s not about sweeping gestures but the quiet defiance of existing as a queer person in spaces that would rather erase you. The book’s ending doesn’t offer catharsis—it leaves you hollowed out, which is why it sticks. Classics aren’t just well-written; they change how we see ourselves. This one does both.