Why is it so hard for some people to say, “I’m sorry”?
I feel like I say it all day long.
Some mornings, I apologize to Erin before I even get out of bed.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know yet. But statistically speaking, something is coming, and I thought we could save time.”
This is marriage after sixteen years. You stop waiting for the crime and just enter a plea.
But real apologies seem to come few and far between. Not the quick “Sorry about that” we toss over our shoulder after forgetting to replace the toilet paper. I mean the terrifying kind. The kind where you sit across from someone you have deeply hurt, look them in the eyes, and admit that you were wrong.
No footnotes.
No closing argument.
No PowerPoint titled Important Context Regarding Why I Was Actually Only Forty-Seven Percent Responsible.
Just wrong.
I have done things in my life that were very bad and very wrong. I have hurt people I love. Some of them have hurt me too, but that doesn’t erase what I did. Pain is not math. Their twelve does not cancel out my eight and leave us with a perfectly respectable four.
Unfortunately, I would still like it to.
That is the trap hiding inside most apologies. We say we want forgiveness, but sometimes what we really want is a retrial.
I’m sorry I hurt you, but you need to understand what you did first.
I’m sorry I said those things, but I was angry.
I’m sorry I disappeared, but you pushed me away.
I’m sorry, but...
Everything after but is usually the part where we take the apology back.
I know this. And yet, when I imagine apologizing to certain people, my mind immediately begins preparing legal exhibits.
What exactly do I say?
Do I explain everything? Do I list every failure, every lie, every cruel word, every moment when I chose pride over love? Do I unroll the Dead Sea Scroll of My Terrible Decisions and begin reading aloud until somebody’s lunch break?
Do I focus on the worst thing?
Do I explain why I did it?
And what happens after I say it?
What if they ask, “Why did you do that?”
What if they say, “I don’t believe you”?
What if they tell me exactly what my choices did to them?
What if they keep pressing until every cell in my body starts screaming, Okay, but you hurt me too?
That is the moment I fear most—not because I don’t know how to apologize, but because I know how quickly humility can put on a fake mustache and return as self-defense.
I can begin with, “I am deeply sorry,” and somehow end twenty minutes later with a detailed documentary about the crimes committed against me.
Written, directed, and narrated by the defendant.
But a real apology is not my opportunity to finally make them understand me. It is my opportunity to show them that I am beginning to understand them.
That may mean listening while they tell me things I do not want to hear. It may mean letting them be angry, skeptical, or unmoved.
They may not forgive me.
They may never trust me again.
They may hear my apology and decide that the healthiest response is silence.
That hurts. But an apology is not a vending machine. I cannot insert remorse, press B7, and wait for forgiveness to drop into the tray.
I can only own my part.
Most painful situations have more than one part. Two people can hurt each other. Two stories can be true. But I am learning that I do not have to tell both stories at the same time.
My apology is not the place to present theirs.
That does not mean pretending I was never hurt. It means that, for a few sacred minutes, I stop keeping score. I lay down the evidence. I release my desperate need to be seen as the good guy.
I say:
I was wrong.
I hurt you.
You did not deserve that.
I am deeply sorry for my part in what happened.
I expect nothing from you.
And then comes the hardest part.
I stop talking.
For a man who has spent much of his life believing the correct number of words can fix absolutely anything, this feels unnatural. I have written books, given speeches, defended decisions, and talked myself into and out of more situations than I can count.
Surely another paragraph would help.
Usually, it would not.
Lately, I have been trying to live a more aligned life... a life in which the faith I profess on Sunday can recognize the man I am on Monday. That requires more than feeling sorry. Remorse is an emotion. Repentance is a direction.
It means turning around.
It means changing.
It also means accepting that some apologies may reopen wounds instead of healing them. Contacting someone may bring peace, or it may drag them back into a chapter they worked very hard to close. Sometimes saying “I’m sorry” is courageous. Sometimes leaving someone alone is the more loving choice.
That is where discernment comes in.
Am I reaching out because it may help them... or because I can no longer stand carrying what I did?
Do I want to make amends... or do I want them to make me feel better?
Am I prepared to honor whatever they do with my apology, including nothing?
I do not always know the answer.
I wish God worked more like customer service. Press one for forgiveness. Press two for reconciliation. Press three if you would like a clear sign before making an emotionally complicated decision.
Instead, I pray. I wait. I ask for wisdom. And I try to become the kind of person whose changed life says what words alone cannot.
There is an old saying: “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
I don’t believe the saying continues, “But if that first step is uncomfortable, you should quit.”
The first step is supposed to be hard.
Maybe the first step is making the call.
Maybe it is writing the letter and waiting before sending it.
Maybe it is saying the words without defending yourself.
Maybe it is respecting the distance someone needs.
And maybe, before asking another person to believe that we have changed, the first step is quietly beginning to change.
I cannot rewrite what I have done. I cannot decide when... or whether someone forgives me. I cannot force reconciliation simply because I have finally become ready for it.
But I can tell the truth.
I can own my part.
I can stop placing a but after my remorse.
And when love and wisdom tell me the time is right, I can take that terrifying first step toward another human being with empty hands and no expectations.
I can look them in the eyes and say the truest words I have:
I am deeply sorry.
Then I can let the apology belong to them.
And let the rest of the journey belong to God.
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