Why I Stopped Apologizing for Existing

What looks like politeness is often just a lifetime of shrinking

I didn’t start saying “sorry” because I was polite. I started saying it because it worked.

It smoothed things over. It kept the air calm. It made me easier to be around. Apologizing became a way of moving through the world without taking up too much space—and for a long time, that felt like safety.

I apologized for being in the way. For asking a question. For saying no. For existing before coffee. Sometimes I apologized for other people’s discomfort, as if I’d personally caused it, as if their feelings were mine to manage.

I didn’t call it shrinking. I called it being nice.

But “nice” was just careful in a better outfit.

Because here’s the part we rarely say out loud: apologizing became a kind of emotional insurance. A way to pre-empt blame. A way to stay likeable. A way to avoid being read as difficult, cold, or “too much.”

So I learned to soften my edges. I learned to explain myself. I learned to smooth the air before anyone even asked.

It was ingrained. Conditioned. Quietly shaping how I carried myself in rooms, conversations, relationships, work.

And even when I noticed it—when I started unlearning it—it wasn’t simple.

Stopping didn’t feel empowering at first. It felt exposed.

The strangest moment wasn’t when I stopped saying sorry. It was the pause after. The part of me that waited for consequences. The nervous system bracing for the look, the tone shift, the subtle punishment that never came—or sometimes did.

Because the fear underneath wasn’t really about manners.

It was: what happens if I don’t shrink? What happens if I take up space and someone doesn’t like it? What happens if I stop explaining myself?

What I’ve learned is this: some people are very comfortable with your apology. It keeps things simple for them.

But empathy doesn’t require self-erasure. Caring doesn’t mean carrying what isn’t yours.

“Excuse me” is movement. “Thank you” is presence. And “no” is already a complete sentence—even without a supporting document.

I didn’t stop apologizing because I became more confident.

I stopped because I got tired of disappearing.

That girl who danced without permission didn’t vanish. She just learned how to survive first.

Now she’s remembering how to carry herself again. Less shrinking. More dancing. Not loudly. Not defiantly. Just fully.

And that turns out to be enough.

I write for women who are tired of performing and ready to feel real again. No hacks. No hustle. No 3-step frameworks to reclaim your feminine fire—or whatever LinkedIn’s selling this week.

Just truth. Rest. And a slow return to yourself.

Pull up a chair. You’re already doing it.