The Day I Stopped Apologizing for Being Me

The alarm blared at 6:00 AM, a sharp intrusion into the quiet of my small apartment. It was Friday, August 8, 2025, and the gray light filtering through my curtains hinted at another overcast day in the city. I rolled out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor, and shuffled to the kitchen. At 32, I’d fallen into a rhythm—wake up, brew coffee, check emails, apologize. Not aloud, not always, but in the way I carried myself: shoulders hunched, voice softened, edges smoothed to avoid rocking the boat. I apologized for taking up space, for my opinions, for the fact that I wasn’t the polished version of myself I thought the world expected.

I worked remotely as a graphic designer, a job I’d stumbled into after years of drifting through art school and odd jobs. My desk was a mess of sketches, empty mugs, and a laptop that flickered with notifications. Today’s task was a client pitch—a sleek logo for a tech startup—and I was already bracing for the inevitable feedback: “It’s good, but can you make it bolder?” or “Maybe less… you?” I sipped my coffee, bitter and strong, and opened my design software, my stomach knotting with that familiar dread.

The morning passed in a blur of revisions and self-doubt. By noon, I’d sent the draft, my email ending with a timid “Let me know if this works, or if I should change anything!” I leaned back, rubbing my eyes, when my phone buzzed. A text from my friend Mia: “Lunch? New café on 5th. You in?” I hesitated. I’d planned to work through, to prove I was productive, but something—maybe the weight of my own apologies—pushed me to say yes.

The café was a cozy spot, all exposed brick and warm lighting, a stark contrast to the drizzle outside. Mia waved from a table near the window, her bright smile a welcome jolt. She was the opposite of me—confident, unapologetic, always encouraging me to “own it.” We ordered sandwiches, and as we ate, she asked about my pitch. I shrugged. “It’s fine, I guess. I’ll probably have to redo it.”

“Why do you do that?” she asked, her tone gentle but firm. “Undercut yourself before anyone else can?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t know. Habit, maybe? I just don’t want to seem… too much.”

She leaned forward, her eyes searching mine. “You’re not too much. You’re you. And that’s enough.”

Her words stung, not because they were harsh, but because they echoed a truth I’d been avoiding. I’d spent years shrinking myself—apologizing for my quirky doodles in meetings, my love for vintage sci-fi, my tendency to ramble about color theory. I’d molded myself into a version I thought others would accept, but it left me hollow. Before I could respond, the café door swung open, and a woman walked in, her presence commanding the room.

She was middle-aged, with short, silver-streaked hair and a vibrant purple scarf that clashed gloriously with her mustard-yellow coat. She carried a canvas bag overflowing with art supplies—brushes, tubes of paint, a sketchbook—and moved with a confidence that made my chest tighten. She sat at the table next to us, pulling out her sketchbook and a pencil, and began drawing with swift, bold strokes. I couldn’t help but stare. Her lines were wild, unapologetic, like she was claiming the page as her own.

Mia noticed my gaze and grinned. “She’s amazing, right? I’ve seen her here before. Local artist, I think.”

The woman glanced up, catching my eye, and smiled—a warm, knowing smile. “You like it?” she asked, tilting her sketchbook toward me. It was a rough sketch of the café, alive with color and movement, nothing like the sterile designs I churned out for clients.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice small. “I wish I could draw like that.”

She chuckled, a rich sound that filled the space. “You can. You just have to stop asking permission.” She tapped her pencil on the table. “What do you do?”

“I’m a graphic designer,” I admitted, feeling the weight of that apology habit creeping in. “But it’s mostly corporate stuff. Not very… creative.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re apologizing for it. Why?”

I froze. The question hit like a spotlight, exposing every time I’d dimmed my light to fit in. “I don’t know,” I said, my throat tight. “I guess I’m afraid people won’t like it if I’m too… me.”

She nodded, as if she’d heard this before. “Let me tell you something. The world doesn’t need more safe art. It needs your art—messy, bold, yours. I spent 20 years painting what galleries wanted. Then one day, I painted what I felt. Lost clients, sure, but I found myself. Stop apologizing, and start creating.”

Her words sank in, heavy and liberating. Mia squeezed my hand under the table, her eyes shining with encouragement. The woman went back to her sketch, but her words lingered, pulling at the threads of my self-doubt. I thought of my early sketches—wild, colorful, full of heart—abandoned when I’d chased stability. What if I brought that back? What if I stopped apologizing for it?

That afternoon, I returned home, my mind buzzing. I opened a new file on my laptop, not for the client, but for me. I sketched—freehand, no grid, no rules—letting colors clash and shapes collide. It was chaotic, imperfect, and utterly mine. For the first time in years, I didn’t second-guess every stroke. I posted it to my dormant art portfolio online, captioning it with a shaky “Just me.” Within hours, likes and comments rolled in—friends, strangers, even a local gallery owner asking to see more.

The client emailed back about the pitch, requesting changes, but this time, I didn’t flinch. “I can adjust it,” I replied, “but this is my vision. Let’s work from there.” They agreed, a small victory that felt huge. That night, I sat on my couch, sketchbook in hand, and realized something had shifted. I wasn’t apologizing anymore—not for my style, my passions, my quirks. I was just… me.

The next day, I returned to the café, hoping to thank the woman. She wasn’t there, but her sketchbook had left a mark. I started sketching the room, capturing the drizzle outside, the barista’s laugh, the hum of life. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. Over the weeks, I built a new portfolio—bold, personal designs—and pitched them to clients. Some said no, but others said yes, drawn to the authenticity. My social media grew, my confidence with it.

I never saw the woman again, but her words became my mantra: stop asking permission. Mia noticed the change, teasing me about my newfound “swagger.” I laughed, knowing it was more than that—it was freedom. At 32, I’d spent too long apologizing for being me, but that day in the café, I let it go. My art, my voice, my life—they weren’t up for approval anymore. They were mine to claim.

Now, when I wake up, I don’t brace for judgment. I brew my coffee, sit at my desk, and create. The city outside my window buzzes with its own rhythm, and I add mine to it—unapologetic, unscripted, alive. That day wasn’t just a turning point; it was a rebirth. And every stroke of my pen reminds me: I’m enough, just as I am.