the curse of non-apologies

and why I couldn't let things be

I grew up in a house where no one ever said sorry. Never hearing it made me feel such shame when it was my turn to apologise. As a young child, I would sob in my room after saying Sorry, and I would avoid eye contact for an entire week after, even when my mistakes were entirely forgotten about by then.

When I felt hurt, there was never a quiet, vulnerable Sorry. Not even the half-hearted “I’m sorry you feel that way, but…”.

If something went wrong, e.g. if voices were raised, if feelings were hurt, if tears fell (usually because of my father), I would drop my cutlery at the dinner table and run into my room, closing the door when I really felt like slamming it, and hid under the blanket to cry. I cried out all that anger. Some time later, my mother would come in with cut up fruit, like an offering. I would wait for her to leave my room again, then eat the fruit.

The next morning, my father would drive me to school and act like nothing happened. We let it pass. We left it unspoken, unfixed, swallowed like bad medicine. And I became an actress in going along with it – because I’m a seeker of harmony and peace and want everything settled and nice. By forgetting about the injustice and the hurt, I could have all of that.

And so now, as an adult, I struggle to trust my own feelings. If no one acknowledged your pain, or worse, denied it happened, you start to question yourself if you were overreacting, or whether something even happened the way you remember it. There is a disconnect, and you learn that your pain doesn’t matter unless others address it.

Without closure, my brain stays in a “What happened?” mode, where I’m replaying situations over and over to make sense of them. I get anxious, I start overthinking, and I feel unable to let things go. Especially in conflict and misunderstanding.

If I sense the slightest shift in someone’s tone or energy, I rush to fill the silence with clarity. I find subtle and less subtle ways to ask “Are we okay?”, I have the urge to ask “Do you actually like me? Am I annoying you?”, and I would go back and forth overthinking like, “Do you need space? I can give you space. Or not. Whatever you want.”

As apologies were absent, I now avoid hard conversations, freeze when someone is upset and feel panicked by emotional tension. My nervous system learned that conflict means danger, not repair. It means the end of the world.

Some people shut down and are unable to admit fault because it feels like shame, not growth. Others, like me, become chronic over-apologisers, trying to keep the peace at all costs. In both cases, the apology becomes emotionally loaded, instead of liberating.

I feel intense pressure for instant resolution. I want to fix everything now, talk everything out immediately, make it right before they leave or change their mind. I pour every drop of emotional bandwidth into making sure the air is clear. And if it’s not, I can’t rest. I refresh my texts. I replay the last thing I said. I write drafts I’ll never send. Because somewhere deep in me lives this unshakable belief: If we don’t talk it through right now, it might never be okay.

Because as a kid, no one circled back to say: “I was wrong. You were right. I love you.” or “I need a moment because I’m angry. We can find a solution later.” So my system never learned that resolution can come with time, or come at all.

When no one teaches you how to apologise — really apologise — you don’t learn how to receive an apology, either. You don’t learn that relationships can bend and bounce without breaking, and that arguments and differences and the difficult conversations can help them grow and shape into Better. That discomfort isn’t the same as danger. It’s not necessarily the end. Not every silence is a threat.

So I learned to survive by explaining myself. Fast. Clearly. Repeatedly. Even when no one asked. Even when the moment has long passed. Just to make sure I’m not misunderstood, or that I haven’t misunderstood anything.

And don’t get me wrong: accountability matters. Clarity matters.

I repeat myself in apologies. I hate when people need space (especially over days, not just hours) during an argument and we can’t settle anything right away.

What I’ve had to learn in the most uncomfortable way was that not everything needs to be untangled right away. Not everything broken needs to be glued back together in the same breath. Not every quiet moment needs to be patched with a string of panicked words.

Sometimes, I think healing means not rushing to fix, but letting discomfort pass through me without needing to name it, solve it, or smooth it over with nervous energy.

Sometimes, the real apology I need is one to myself: “I’m sorry no one taught you safety in silence.”

“I’m sorry you had to learn repair by being the only one trying.”

“I’m sorry they never said Sorry to you. I will apologise to you instead.”

My mother is better now. With saying Sorry, I mean. I appreciate it just the same, feeling no resentment. I am in my twenties and only learning. My mother is older, but learning alongside me. As for my father, I think I can come to the conclusion that he might feel sorry for a lot of things, but was never able to say it, and maybe never will be. But I believe that deep down he feels it, and if in reality he doesn’t, then I’ll apologise to little Hannah on his behalf. And that’s my peace I’ll make with it.

I still have to find a good balance between saying Sorry because I’m used to over-apologising, and realising when I’m not actually wrong. Seeing when I’ve said Sorry enough. Seeing if I’m apologising for the right thing.

I’m not too much – I’m just trying to make the world feel safe, in the only way I was taught. We can learn new ways together.

If you liked this piece:

• I stopped oversharing and my life got better for it

• my attempt at healing my anxious attachment

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