“Writing Without Apologies”

Writing Without Apologies

By [Ali Rehman]

(A Story About Finding Freedom in Words)

For most of my life, I wrote like I was asking for permission.

Permission to be read. Permission to be understood. Permission to take up space.

I remember sitting in a dim classroom during my college years, my notebook trembling beneath my hand as I wrote my first short story. It was about a girl who found beauty in broken things — chipped cups, torn pages, and people who didn’t quite fit in. When I read it aloud, my professor smiled politely but said, “It’s nice, but it’s a bit too personal. Try to make it more universal.”

“Too personal.”

Those two words echoed in my head like a warning bell.

From that day, I began to trim myself out of my writing. Every time I picked up a pen, I asked myself, Would someone like this? instead of Does this feel true? I smoothed my rough edges, softened my emotions, and erased the quirks that made my voice distinct. My sentences became tidy and lifeless, my stories polished but hollow — like glass figurines that looked beautiful but shattered under the slightest touch.

I thought that was what good writing meant — sounding like everyone else.

It wasn’t until years later, when I stumbled into a small, dimly lit café during a rainstorm, that something shifted. The café was nearly empty, save for a few students hunched over laptops and a man with a notebook full of scribbles. He was writing furiously, completely unaware of the world around him — his hair messy, his expression alive.

When he noticed me watching, he grinned and said, “I write for the noise in my head. It’s too loud to stay silent.”

That sentence hit me harder than any writing advice ever had.

I realized then that I’d been writing for approval, not for the noise inside me. The stories I wanted to tell weren’t tidy. They were messy, raw, and sometimes uncomfortable. But they were mine.

That night, I went home and opened a blank document. I didn’t care about grammar or structure. I wrote about my fears — about how I always compared myself to others, about the times I felt invisible, about the guilt of wanting to be seen. I wrote until my hands ached and my eyes burned.

When I finished, it wasn’t a masterpiece. But it was honest.

It was me — unfiltered, unpolished, unapologetic.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I needed to ask for permission.

A few months later, I gathered the courage to post that story online under my real name. I expected silence, maybe even criticism. But instead, I got messages like:

“This is exactly how I feel but could never say.”

“Thank you for putting this into words.”

“I thought I was the only one.”

It wasn’t universal in the way my professor had wanted — it was universal because it was personal.

That’s when I learned something fundamental: people don’t connect with perfection; they connect with truth. When you write without apologies, you give others permission to be real too.

Of course, writing unapologetically doesn’t mean it’s easy. Doubt still visits me like an uninvited guest. Some days, I reread my work and cringe. Other days, I worry that I’ve shared too much. But I remind myself — my job isn’t to be liked. My job is to be honest.

Because writing is an act of rebellion against silence. It’s saying, “This is who I am — take it or leave it.”

And there’s a strange kind of freedom in that.

I now write in the same café where I met that man. I never learned his name, but his words still guide me. On my table, there’s a notebook filled with stories — some dark, some soft, all pieces of me. The pages aren’t perfect, but they breathe.

I no longer edit out my emotions to make my work palatable. I let my sadness speak, I let my joy sing, and I let my anger bleed through metaphors. I write about heartbreaks that still ache and dreams that never quite died.

Because my voice — flawed, raw, and imperfect — is mine.

And I no longer apologize for it.

Sometimes, I imagine that girl I used to be — the one in that classroom, erasing herself word by word. I wish I could tell her that her stories didn’t need to fit into anyone else’s mold. That her pain, her weirdness, her perspective — all of it — was enough.

I wish I could tell her that authenticity is the bravest form of art.

But maybe, in a way, I already have. Every time I write now, I speak to her — and to anyone who’s ever felt like their voice was too small to matter.

So, to the dreamers, the overthinkers, the ones afraid to take up space:

Write your truth.

Write what scares you.

Write what makes your heart stutter.

And most of all — write without apologies.