This One Habit Quietly Ruined My Confidence

I didn't notice I was doing it until my girlfriend pointed it out.

We were at dinner with her friends, and I'd just finished telling a story about something funny that happened at work. Everyone laughed, the conversation moved on, and I thought nothing of it. Later that night, in the car ride home, she turned to me and said, "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" I asked.

"Apologize for yourself. You ended that story with 'sorry, that probably wasn't as funny as I thought.' You do it constantly."

I wanted to argue, but she was right. I'd said it without even thinking. And once she pointed it out, I couldn't stop noticing it everywhere. "Sorry, that's probably a dumb question." "This might not make sense, but..." "I don't know, maybe I'm wrong." Every other sentence out of my mouth came with a preemptive apology attached.

I was undermining myself before anyone else could.

It hadn't always been like this. I remembered being a confident kid, the one who raised his hand first in class, who spoke up without second-guessing every word. Somewhere between childhood and 27, that person had disappeared. I'd become someone who apologized for taking up space, for having opinions, for existing too loudly.

I started paying attention to when I did it. Meetings at work were the worst. I'd spend an hour preparing a presentation, research every detail, know my material cold—and then start with, "This might be off-base, but..." or "I could be wrong, but here's what I think..." I was giving everyone permission to dismiss me before I'd even made my point.

My coworker Brian never did this. He'd say things with complete certainty, even when I knew he'd spent half the time preparing that I had. "Here's what we need to do," he'd announce, no hedging, no softening. Half the time his ideas weren't even better than mine. But he got taken seriously. He got promoted. Meanwhile, I was still qualifying every sentence like I needed permission to speak.

The worst part? I thought I was being humble. Likeable. I didn't want to come across as arrogant or pushy, so I made myself smaller. I cushioned every statement with doubt so people wouldn't think I was too confident, too much, too sure of myself.

But there's a difference between humility and self-sabotage. I'd crossed that line without realizing it.

I started tracking it for a week, just to see how bad it was. I kept a note on my phone and made a tick mark every time I caught myself apologizing unnecessarily or undermining something I said. By Wednesday, I'd stopped counting. It was dozens of times a day. In emails: "Sorry to bother you, but..." In texts: "This might be stupid, but..." In conversations: "I don't know if this makes sense..."

I was exhausting. Even I was tired of listening to myself.

The breaking point came during a team meeting. I'd spent two weeks developing a strategy for a new project. I knew it was solid. I had data, examples, a clear implementation plan. When it was my turn to present, I started with, "So, this is just one idea, and it might not work, but..."

My manager cut me off. "Do you believe in this idea or not?"

I froze. "I... yes. I do."

"Then present it like you do."

It was such a simple thing to say, but it hit me like cold water. I'd been asking people to take me seriously while simultaneously signaling that I didn't take myself seriously. How could I expect anyone to have confidence in me when I was actively broadcasting that I didn't have confidence in myself?

I decided to try something uncomfortable. For one full day, I wouldn't apologize unless I'd actually done something wrong. I wouldn't soften my statements. I wouldn't hedge. I'd just say what I meant, directly, and deal with whatever happened.

It felt terrible. Every sentence without a cushion felt aggressive, arrogant, too much. I was sure people would think I was being cocky. My anxiety was screaming that I was doing it wrong, that I needed to go back to making myself smaller and safer.

But something strange happened. People listened more. In a meeting, I said, "I think we should go with option B for these three reasons," with no qualifier. No "maybe" or "possibly" or "just my opinion." And people just... nodded. Discussed the reasons. Took it seriously.

Nobody thought I was arrogant. Nobody accused me of being too confident. The world didn't end because I stated something without apologizing for it first.

It's been eight months since I started actively breaking this habit. I still catch myself doing it sometimes—it's a deeply ingrained reflex. But I'm better. I notice when I'm about to undermine myself, and I stop. I reframe. Instead of "This might be dumb, but..." I just say what I think. Instead of "Sorry to bother you," I just ask the question.

My confidence didn't come back overnight. But it came back. Slowly, in small moments. The first time I disagreed with someone in a meeting without softening it. The first time I said "I'm proud of this" about my work instead of deflecting the compliment. The first time someone asked my opinion and I gave it without a disclaimer.

Here's what I learned: the way you talk about yourself teaches other people how to treat you. When you constantly apologize for existing, people learn to treat your presence as an inconvenience. When you undermine your own ideas, people learn not to take them seriously. You're giving them a script, and they're following it.

The habit felt harmless. It felt polite, humble, safe. But it was quietly destroying my confidence from the inside. Every time I minimized myself, I reinforced the belief that I wasn't worth taking up space. That my thoughts weren't valuable unless I wrapped them in apologies.

If you do this too—and I think a lot of us do—pay attention for just one day. Notice how many times you apologize for things that aren't mistakes. How many times you soften a statement that didn't need softening. How many times you undermine yourself before anyone else gets the chance.

Then try stopping. Just for a day. Say what you mean. Own your thoughts. Take up the space you're entitled to.

It'll feel wrong at first. You'll feel exposed, too much, too confident. That feeling is just the gap between who you've been pretending to be and who you actually are.

Close the gap. Stop apologizing for yourself.

You'll be amazed how much confidence you find when you stop actively destroying it.