The Day I Stopped Apologizing for Existing

The Day I Stopped Apologizing for Existing

I’ve always been the type of person who apologizes to chairs. You know, the ones you bump into and go, “Oh sorry,” as if the chair might file a complaint for emotional damage.

Once, I even said "sorry" to a fly I accidentally swatted. I was the human embodiment of an apology note. At restaurants, I apologized if the waiter brought the wrong order. At work, I said sorry when I sneezed too loud. My default response to life? "Sorry about that."

So it wasn’t surprising that on Wednesday, March 12th at exactly 8:03 a.m., I apologized to a revolving door. Twice.

Let me explain.

Chapter One: My Life as a Walking Sorry Machine

It was just another day in the glorious mess that was my existence. I was late (as usual), juggling a coffee, a half-broken laptop, and a tote bag that had more stress inside it than a therapist’s office.

I approached the big glass revolving door at my office building. A man in a suit walked in front of me, cut in line, and got through before I could squeeze in. I muttered, “Oh, sorry!” like it was my fault he had no manners.

Then the revolving door nudged me back slightly because I hesitated. “Oh, sorry!” I said. TO THE DOOR.

That’s when Karen-from-Accounting witnessed the whole thing, sipped her green smoothie like she was judging me on Survivor, and said, “You know, doors can’t hear you.”

I laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, haha. I know. I’m just… polite?”

She walked off without saying a word. Typical Karen behavior.

But something about the look she gave me stuck. It wasn’t cruel. It was pity. And somehow, that felt worse.

Chapter Two: The Breaking Point Was a Sandwich

At lunch, I went to the sandwich shop near the office and ordered a turkey melt. When it arrived, it had ham, onions, and some mystery sauce that tasted like regret and motor oil.

Still, I smiled and said, “Thanks so much!”

The guy behind the counter gave me a thumbs up. I sat down, opened the sandwich, and immediately felt my stomach betray me.

But did I return it? Of course not. Instead, I ATE THE WHOLE THING, then tipped the guy three dollars and told him it was “amazing.”

I spent the next three hours with heartburn and the creeping realization that I had no spine. None. If I were a jellyfish, other jellyfish would be like, “Bro, stiffen up.”

Chapter Three: The Therapist With the Fire

I’d been seeing a therapist named Gloria for months, and she was a delightful 65-year-old woman with pink glasses and the voice of a kindergarten teacher. But that day? Gloria came in hot.

“You apologize too much,” she said bluntly, before even sitting down. “I watched your voicemail. You apologized to me for booking an appointment. What are you guilty of, murder?”

“Okay, maybe not murder,” I mumbled. “I just… I don’t like making people uncomfortable.”

She leaned in. “Let me ask you something. Do you think you deserve to take up space?”

I laughed. “Of course I do.”

“Are you sure?”

I paused.

Was I?

Chapter Four: Unpacking the Mess

Turns out, most of my “sorry” problem wasn’t about manners. It was about believing I was inconvenient. Somewhere along the way, little me had decided that being myself was too loud, too much, too weird.

There was a time in school where I laughed too loud and someone said, “You’re too much.”

There was the time I wore a bright yellow dress to a family gathering and an aunt said, “Tone it down.”

There was the time I tried to speak up in a meeting and got ignored, then apologized for “interrupting.”

So, like any sensible people-pleaser, I shrank.

I became quiet. Agreeable. Small.

And polite. Always polite. “Sorry” became the currency I paid to exist without making waves.

But here’s the thing about staying small — it doesn’t protect you. It just erases you.

Chapter Five: The Rebirth (And Mild Panic Attack)

The next morning, I woke up with a plan: No apologies unless I actually do something wrong.

That’s it. Simple. Right?

Wrong.

By 9 a.m., I’d already said “sorry” for someone bumping into me at the train station. So I took drastic action. I grabbed a sticky note and wrote in big bold letters:

YOU ARE NOT AN APOLOGY.

I stuck it to my laptop. I made it my phone wallpaper. I whispered it to myself like a weirdo in the elevator.

At work, when a coworker asked if I could stay late and cover his shift, I smiled and said, “No, I have plans.”

He blinked. “Oh. Okay. Cool.”

THAT’S IT. No thunderbolt. No office collapse. Just… a no. And it felt glorious.

Later, I posted a picture of my weird sock collection on Instagram. No filters. No captions like “Sorry, I know these are lame lol.” Just me.

I lost three followers. Gained five.

Progress.

Chapter Six: The Real Test

Two weeks later, I was asked to speak at a community event on “Personal Growth.” Naturally, I almost declined because I didn’t want to take up too much space. But something inside me whispered: Do it afraid.

So I did.

The day of the event, I stood on stage in a bright yellow dress (take THAT, Aunt Denise) and told the audience about the revolving door. The sandwich. The therapist. The word that ruled my life: sorry.

And how one day, I stopped.

Not because I magically gained confidence. But because I got tired of living like a footnote in my own story.

The audience laughed. A few people cried. A teenager came up after and said, “Thank you. I thought I was the only one who felt like I had to apologize for breathing.”

We hugged. And I didn’t say sorry.

Chapter Seven: Not Perfect, But Real

Do I still say “sorry” sometimes? Of course. Especially when I step on someone’s foot or forget a birthday.

But now, I don’t apologize for:

Existing in a room.

Having an opinion.

Laughing too loud.

Wearing colors that could blind the sun.

Taking up space in this wild, messy, beautiful life.

I am not everyone’s cup of tea. Sometimes I’m a double espresso with no warning. And that’s okay.

I’m not here to shrink anymore. I’m here to shine.

Final Chapter: The Chair That Didn’t Deserve It

Last week, I bumped into another chair.

I opened my mouth out of habit, and then paused.

I looked at it, smiled, and said, “Not this time.”

Karen-from-Accounting walked by, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Good for you.”

I winked. “I’m evolving.”

Then I strutted off with confidence, a little late for my meeting, but unapologetically me.

And you know what?

It felt incredible.