Blog Apologizing

It Still Stings, But I Said It

The dawn light is just beginning to bleed through the east window of my small kitchen, painting the chipped blue mug I use for tea in hues of apricot and rose. Outside, the neighborhood is still wrapped in that quiet hush before the world stirs—birds testing their voices, the distant hum of a delivery truck. This is my hour. The hour when the weight of yesterday’s silence feels lightest, and the courage to speak what’s true feels possible. I wonder sometimes if we ever truly understand the cost of silence, until it’s too late to measure it.

This is the hour I write about Liam. About the sting that lingered long after the words were spoken. About the day I finally said the thing I’d been avoiding for weeks.

The Unraveling

It began with a project. A small community garden initiative we’d co-founded with the neighborhood association. Liam, a quiet man who tends roses like they’re sacred texts, had spent months mapping the soil, researching native plants, and drafting a budget. I’d been juggling my daughter’s wedding plans, my new cat’s insistence on sleeping on my manuscripts, and the gnawing loneliness of a house that’s too big for one. My mind was a tangled knot of too much, and when Liam gently suggested a change to the garden layout—just a small shift near the compost area—I snapped.

“We don’t have time for more changes, Liam. You’ve already spent so much time on this. It’s not that important.”

The words hung there, sharp as broken glass. I saw his shoulders tighten, the way his knuckles whitened around his pen. I’d dismissed his careful work, his effort, as if it were trivial. Later, I replayed it in my head: I was stressed. He should know better. It wasn’t that bad. But the truth, as I’d known it then, was a cold stone in my throat. I’d been cruel. And the worst part? I’d been right to feel ashamed.

The Weight of Silence

For three days, I avoided him. I took my morning walks around the block instead of through the park where he often sat with his sketchbook. I let the phone ring unanswered when I saw his name. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was a living thing, heavy and suffocating. It wasn’t just about Liam; it was about the me I’d been trying to be: the competent, unflappable woman who never falters.

I remember, years ago, when I was still a nun, avoiding Sister Mary Paul after I’d snapped at her for rearranging the choir hymnals. I’d been tired, overwhelmed with the novitiate’s demands, and I’d said, “You never listen to me, Sister.” She’d just nodded, her eyes kind but distant. I’d spent weeks avoiding her, until she’d simply said, “Gertrude, the hymnals are fine. But your silence is not.” I’d been 32 then, and I’d thought I was being strong by not admitting I’d been wrong. Now, at 81, I see how that silence was a kind of violence.

What if the apology isn’t about fixing the hurt, but about honoring the hurt?

The Anatomy of an Apology

I rehearsed. Oh, how I rehearsed.

“Liam, I’m sorry I was harsh. I was stressed.” (Too defensive. It made it about me.) “I shouldn’t have dismissed your work. It was important.” (Too formal. Like a letter.) “I was wrong. I’m sorry.” (Too abrupt. Like a sentence.)

I’d practiced in the mirror, my voice trembling. But the words felt like stones in my mouth. I’d been taught that humility was about lessening yourself, but I’d never understood that it’s about seeing yourself clearly. The real apology isn’t a performance—it’s a surrender.

I finally called him on a Tuesday. Rain streaked the window as I dialed. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone. I didn’t have a script. I just said:

“Liam, I’ve been avoiding you. And I’m so sorry. I was stressed, but that’s no excuse. I dismissed your work, and it was wrong. I was scared to say I was wrong because I don’t want to be the person who hurts people. I’ve been carrying this guilt like a stone. I’m sorry.”

I didn’t cry until I’d finished.

He was quiet. Just quiet. And then: “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

No grand forgiveness. No “It’s okay.” Just a quiet acknowledgment. And that was enough.

What I Learned, Slowly

1. Courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s the decision to speak through it. I thought courage meant being fearless. But it’s the trembling hand, the shaky voice, the choice to say the hard thing anyway. When I was a nun, I thought courage was standing firm in the face of doubt. Now I see it’s softer: it’s the willingness to be seen as imperfect.

2. Humility isn’t self-deprecation—it’s honesty. I used to think humility meant saying “I’m not good enough.” But it’s the opposite. It’s saying “I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.” It’s recognizing that we’re all messy, human, and capable of hurting the people we love.

3. The silence before the apology is the heaviest weight. I carried that guilt for two weeks. I’d wake up with it, feel it in my chest when I walked past Liam’s house. What if he’s stopped trusting me? What if he’s told others I’m unkind? The silence was a prison I’d built myself.

4. Apologies aren’t about making the other person feel better—they’re about making you feel true. I thought I was apologizing to Liam to “fix” things. But the real gift was for me. When I finally spoke the truth, the guilt dissolved. It wasn’t about Liam’s forgiveness; it was about my own release.

Common Mistakes I’ve Made (And How to Avoid Them)

The “But” Apology: “I’m sorry I snapped, but you made me snap.” This shifts blame. Just say it. No “but.”* The Over-Explanation: “I’m sorry I was harsh—I was stressed about my daughter’s wedding, and the cat was on my manuscript, and I just had a bad day.” This makes it about you. Focus on their hurt, not your stress.* The Rehearsed Script: “I apologize for my actions. I was wrong. I will do better.” This feels cold. Be human. Say what you felt.* The Delayed Apology: “I’ll apologize later.” Later becomes never. Do it while the hurt is fresh.*

A Different Perspective: The Other Side of the Apology

Liam told me later he’d been waiting for me to say something. “I knew you were upset,” he said. “But I didn’t want to make it worse by pushing.” He’d been carrying his own guilt—“Maybe I should have been clearer.”

I’d assumed he’d be angry. But he’d been just as afraid of my silence as I’d been of his anger. What if we all carry more fear than we admit?

Practical Steps for the Next Time (From My 81 Years of Messing Up)

1. Pause before the snap. “Is this true? Is this necessary?” If it’s not, don’t say it. 2. Write the apology on a scrap of paper. Not for them—for you. Let the words flow without editing. Then, burn it. (I did this once with a letter to my husband after a fight. The fire felt like a release.) 3. Say it simply. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.” No more. 4. Accept the silence. They might not say “It’s okay.” That’s not the point. The point is you spoke the truth. 5. Let go of the outcome. You can’t control how they feel. You can only own your part.

The Grace in the Stumbling

I still think about that moment with Liam. Not with shame, but with quiet gratitude. What if the apology isn’t about fixing the hurt, but about honoring the hurt?

There’s a kind of grace in that moment when you stop justifying, when you stop building walls, and you simply say: “I was wrong.” It’s not a grand gesture. It’s a tiny, human thing. And it’s the only thing that truly heals.

I wonder sometimes if we spend our lives trying to be perfect, so we never have to say those words. But the truth is, the people who matter most don’t need us to be perfect. They need us to be real.

And real means messy. Real means stumbling. Real means saying, “I was wrong,” even when your hands shake.

The dawn light is brighter now. The birds are singing. And for the first time in weeks, I feel the weight of silence lift—not because Liam has forgiven me, but because I’ve finally forgiven myself.

— Gertrude Carroll, still wondering