I used to think that saying sorry, REALLY saying it, would unlock something. Like the apology was a key, and once I turned it just right, the tension would loosen, the air would clear, and I could finally exhale. But, I’ve been sitting with the quiet aftermath of an apology that didn’t land the way I hoped it would. And it’s teaching me something I didn’t want to learn: sometimes, “I’m sorry” doesn’t fix it. Not for them. Not even for me.
I spoke from the heart. I meant every word. I laid my shame out gently, hoping it would feel like healing. But what came instead was silence. Or maybe stillness. The kind that hums when a door closes slowly and nothing is said on the other side. And I’ve been stuck in that silence, staring down the echo of my own voice and wondering: Was that enough? Am I enough?
And the truth is, maybe not. Not yet. Maybe an apology isn’t a fix, but a beginning. Maybe it’s less about redemption and more about recognition. A way of saying: I finally see the damage. I finally see you. And I finally see myself clearly, maybe for the first time.
But damn, it hurts when the words don’t land. When you’ve burned so much and all you want is to rebuild something, anything, and instead, you’re left holding the ashes, realizing they were never yours to shape back together.
What I’m learning is that healing. Real healing. isn’t transactional. It’s not a clean slate. It’s not a line drawn in the sand between “then” and “now.” It’s a long, winding road where some people keep walking beside you and others wave from far behind, or don’t wave at all.
And the hardest part? Knowing you might never be seen the way you want to be seen by the person you hurt the most. That’s a grief you don’t prepare for. That’s a grief that curls up in your ribs and asks to be carried anyway.
So I keep walking. I keep trying. Not for a reaction. Not for closure. But because I want to become someone who no longer causes harm. Someone who can hold space for pain… mine and theirs. Without rushing to fix or run away.
Some days, that feels like progress. Other days, it just feels like sitting in the middle of a storm I created, letting the wind remind me what it means to be human.
But even in the storm, I’m still here. Still learning how to love better. Still learning how to stay.