Why You Apologize for Existing

Transcript

Let’s talk about the apology that hides inside your body.
Not the formal “I’m sorry” after a mistake—
I mean the quiet, habitual apology that happens in your tone.
In your posture.
In how you enter a room.

If you’ve ever said “Sorry” just for asking a question.
Or lowered your voice to sound less direct.
Or reworded a sentence mid-way because it sounded “too certain”—
You know what I mean.

It’s not a verbal tic.
It’s a learned survival strategy.
And it often begins before you even know you're doing it.

Psychologically, this kind of apology isn’t about guilt.
It’s about space. Or rather, your perceived right to take it up.

And if you’ve spent years in environments—personal, professional, cultural—where your needs were framed as burdens, you’ll start to erase yourself before anyone else gets the chance.

You don’t want to seem aggressive.
You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.
So you perform softness. You broadcast “low threat.”
And over time, you stop recognizing it as performance.

It becomes your default tone. Your default stance.

But underneath it, there’s often a belief that runs much deeper:

That your presence is conditional.
That you must earn comfort.
That being tolerated is the best you can hope for.

Now let’s be clear: this isn’t about politeness.
Politeness is a social agreement.
This is preemptive self-reduction.

It sounds like:
“Sorry if this is a dumb question.”
“I know you’re busy, but…”
“I’m not an expert or anything…”

It looks like:
Shrinking your body.
Tightening your shoulders.
Looking down when you speak.

It feels like:
Anticipating rejection.
Bracing for dismissal.
Preparing to defend yourself, even in safe spaces.

And here’s the worst part:
This apology often gets rewarded.

The world calls it humility.
Managers call it being a team player.
Strangers call it good manners.

But it’s not humility if it costs you your voice.
It’s not politeness if it’s rooted in fear.
And it’s not emotional intelligence if it requires constant self-abandonment.

Most of us don’t remember the first time we did this.
We didn’t choose it consciously.
But we practiced it, over and over, until it became indistinguishable from personality.

That’s why it’s hard to spot.
Because it doesn’t feel like behavior anymore.
It just feels like you.

And that’s where it gets dangerous.

Because once something becomes part of your identity, you stop questioning it.
You stop asking who taught it to you.
You stop noticing how much effort it takes to maintain.

And you forget that it’s possible to live differently.

Let me give you an example:

A student once told me she couldn’t make eye contact with her professor when asking a question—even though she respected him and wanted to learn. She said, “I feel like just by raising my hand, I’m being difficult.”

That’s not logic.
That’s a nervous system shaped by experience.

Somewhere along the way, she learned that curiosity can be inconvenient.
That speaking up, even kindly, can make her vulnerable.

So she defaulted to the apology:
Low voice. Minimal presence.
She spoke as if asking to exist.

That’s not just her story.
That’s common. Especially for women. For people of color. For anyone who has lived at the intersection of expectation and silence.

And it’s exhausting.

Because what looks like passivity is often hyper-attunement.
You’re tracking other people’s moods. Anticipating their reactions.
Pre-silencing your truth so it doesn’t make waves.

That’s not weakness. That’s labor.

And the longer you do it, the harder it becomes to find the off switch.

So let me ask you:

When was the last time you softened a sentence so someone else wouldn’t feel small?

When was the last time you filtered your tone because you didn’t want to sound “too much”?

When was the last time you said “I’m sorry” for simply existing in a space?

That’s the moment I want you to notice.

Because clarity begins there.
Not when you perform confidence.
But when you recognize the quiet systems underneath your speech.

You don’t have to bulldoze.
You don’t have to overcorrect.

You just have to pause.
Catch the apology mid-flight.
And ask: Who is this for?

Because real respect doesn’t require your disappearance.
And real clarity doesn’t mean never feeling doubt.

It means knowing the difference between actual humility—and the apology you were trained to perform.

We’ll keep looking at moments like this.

Not to fix you.
Not to shame you.
But to see clearly—without judgment—what behaviors you’ve been taught to carry.
And which ones you’re ready to let go.

This has been Inclarity.
You can find transcripts, notes, and more at inclaritypodcast.com.
New episodes drop every Wednesday.

Until next time, try saying one thing without shrinking.
See what it feels like.