The Day I Stopped Apologizing for Existing.

I used to apologize for everything.

For speaking too loudly.

For taking up space in a crowded room.

For asking questions, for not knowing better, for crying, for laughing, for simply being me.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that my presence needed to be justified. That my thoughts needed permission. That being “too much” was the same as being wrong. I made myself small, polite, agreeable—even when I was breaking on the inside.

I don’t remember the first time I said “sorry” for something I didn’t need to. But I remember the last.

It was a Tuesday. Nothing dramatic or unusual. I was running late for work, juggling a half-eaten bagel, my phone, and the creeping anxiety that had become a daily companion. As I squeezed into the elevator, I brushed against a man in a suit and immediately blurted, “Sorry!”

He looked at me and nodded. No big deal. But something about the way I said it—so automatic, so ingrained—struck a nerve. I wasn’t sorry. I hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet, the word had flown out of my mouth before I’d even thought about it.

That moment stayed with me the whole day.

By lunch, I started counting. I kept a little tally in the corner of my notepad every time I said “sorry.” I hit 12 before 2 p.m.

Twelve apologies for things like asking someone to repeat themselves, needing a pen, or existing in a shared space.

By 4 p.m., I was at 21.

And by the time I got home, it hit me: I had apologized twenty-seven times in one day.

Not once had I meant it.

That night, I sat in silence on my apartment floor, legs crossed, hands trembling. I thought about all the ways I had made myself smaller to fit into rooms that were never built for me. How often I’d quieted my voice, edited my truth, and erased myself in the name of politeness.

I remembered being told as a little girl, “Don’t be so loud,” “Let the others speak,” “Don’t draw too much attention.”

So I didn’t.

I remembered the friends who joked about how “sensitive” I was.

So I toughened up.

I remembered the relationships where I apologized after every argument—even when I wasn’t wrong—because I couldn’t stand the thought of someone being upset with me.

So I bent until I broke.

And that’s when I made the decision.

No more.

The next day, I walked into work and greeted my coworkers with a smile that didn’t ask for approval. When I needed something clarified, I asked. When someone bumped into me, I didn’t say sorry—I smiled and said, “Excuse me.”

That was it. Small shifts. But they felt like earthquakes beneath my skin.

I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t angry. I was just... present.

And it felt like peace.

I started noticing how often the women around me apologized for things they didn’t need to. How many emails began with “Sorry for the delay” even if it was only a couple hours. How many conversations were padded with “I just wanted to...” or “This might be silly, but…”

It wasn’t just me.

We were all doing it. Apologizing for our voices, our time, our needs. As if simply being required a disclaimer.

So I began to speak up—not loudly, not perfectly—but clearly. I let my words breathe. I stopped shrinking.

I started saying things like:

“I need a moment to think about that.”

“Here’s my opinion.”

“I disagree—and here’s why.”

“I’m not available right now.”

“I deserve better.”

And guess what?

The world didn’t end.

The people who truly valued me respected it. The ones who didn’t fell away—and that was its own kind of blessing.

It’s been months since that Tuesday. I still catch myself sometimes—old habits die hard. But I pause. I ask myself: Am I truly sorry? Or am I just uncomfortable taking up space?

Most of the time, I’m not sorry at all.

And now, I live like I mean that.

To the person reading this—maybe you’ve apologized for your own existence, too.

Maybe you’ve been told you’re “too much,” or “not enough,” or “just difficult.” Maybe you’ve carried that weight for years, believing your worth depended on how quietly you could hold your breath and disappear.

But you’re not here to shrink.

You’re here to rise.

And the day you stop apologizing for who you are?

That’s the day everything begins.