“I’m sorry.” But what happens when you realize that constant apology isn’t kindness — it’s a quiet betrayal of yourself?
You’re not even sure what you’re apologizing for, but it’s almost instinct. Like your body learned a long time ago that peace only exists when you’re the one who bends first.
When Maya was a child, her mother would slam doors when she was angry. The sound of it would shake the house and her tiny body along with it. She didn’t always know what she did wrong — maybe she forgot to wash a plate, maybe she laughed too loud — but she learned one thing fast: an apology could calm the storm. Even if she didn’t start it.
So she said sorry.
For everything.
For nothing.
And again, and again, years later, when her boss accused her of having done something that she did not do, she apologized, reflexively, in a low whisper. Just the same she did when she felt punished by the silence of her boyfriend. She said sorry and she wished it would mend the distance. In hope it would cause her to feel secure once more.
But it never did.
Such is the problem with those who apologize too often. It’s rarely about guilt. It is the fear - fear of rejection, fear of anger, fear of misunderstanding. It is the desire to be loved that one wishes to be loved to the point where one would prefer to be small instead of being perceived as a hardened person.
You were taught to gauge your value on how easy you could forgive rather than how honest you could be to yourself.
You apologize because your silence is frightening.
You apologize because you have been conditioned that your peace of mind is subject to the moods of other people.
You apologize because deep inside, you think that you are the problem even when you are not.
Dark affirmation:
“If they’re upset, it must be my fault.”
That belief — the one you never said out loud — has been running your life for years.
You overthink your tone, reread your texts, and apologize for existing too loudly. You call it empathy, but sometimes it’s survival. Because when you’ve been around unpredictable love, you learn to predict yourself out of trouble.
You soften your voice.
You shrink your needs.
You apologize before they even ask.
But what happens when you realize that constant apology isn’t kindness — it’s a quiet betrayal of yourself?
It’s a wound disguised as compassion.
There’s a difference between taking responsibility and taking the blame for everything. One heals relationships, the other erases you in them.
You don’t owe the world an apology for being human. You don’t need to carry everyone’s emotions like fragile glass. You are allowed to take up space without asking permission.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can say isn’t “I’m sorry.”
It’s “That wasn’t my fault.”
I can attest that it is difficult to unlearn this.
Even today, you may experience the desire to apologize at having read this and being noticed. But you don’t need to.
You never had an issue of attempting to maintain peace. You were doing the best you could to survive. Peace, however, founded on self-erasure is no peace at all — it is silence in disguise.
Next time you feel that reflex going up in your chest, stop. Breathe. Ask yourself, did I actually do something bad or am I just afraid that they will no longer love me unless I apologize to them?
You are entitled to love which will not put you scared to be here.
You have a right to peace that will not rely on you and your apology.
And you have a right to exist in your truth without having to stoop yourself to make another person feel more comfortable.
Final reflection:
You’ve apologized enough.
Now it’s time to forgive yourself for thinking you ever had to.
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