Learning to Exist Without Apologies

“Sorry.” That’s probably the word I use the most in a day. I apologize for the delay in my response. Sorry for asking again. Sorry for interrupting. Sorry for being tired. Sorry for… existing? It’s almost embarrassing when I think about it, how I shrink myself with every apology. How I fold into corners that no one asked me to hide in. People probably don’t even notice half the things I’m saying sorry for. But in my head, I’m constantly a disruption. A burden. An inconvenience. And maybe that’s the habit I hate the most, not just apologizing, but apologizing for being.

Some of us grew up believing we had to earn our space. That if we were too loud, too needy, too emotional, too anything, we were taking up more than what was allowed. So we learnt this performance: speak softly, don’t ask for much, say sorry before they even get a chance to be annoyed. It almost feels like a shield; if I apologize first, you can’t hurt me. But this shield doesn’t just protect me. It cages me. It makes me smaller every single day.

I’ve apologized for sending the text. For crying in front of someone. For being sick. For laughing too loudly. And each time, the sorry wasn’t really for them, it was for me. For daring to exist in a way that wasn’t perfectly polished, perfectly invisible. It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it? How a three-syllable word becomes an anchor.

Sometimes I wonder, what if I didn’t apologize? What if I said “thank you for waiting” instead of “sorry I’m late”? What if I said nothing at all and just allowed myself to be human? Would people really think I’m rude? Or would they finally see the version of me that isn’t constantly shrinking, constantly folding inwards? Maybe they’d see the real me. And maybe, just maybe, I’d start seeing her too.

So here’s my quiet promise to myself: I will not apologize for breathing. I will not apologize for needing. I will not apologize for existing. Because my presence isn’t a burden. My softness isn’t a flaw. My existence isn’t an inconvenience. And the next time my mouth opens to whisper “sorry,” I hope I pause. I hope I remember, I am allowed to be here.

And if you’re reading this and nodding silently, then this is for you too. We’re not mistakes. We’re not interruptions. We don’t have to shrink anymore.