Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

Last Tuesday, I apologized to my barista for taking too long to decide between oat milk and almond milk. She didn't even look up from the register. I stood there, genuinely embarrassed, realizing this was the third apology I'd made before 9 a.m.—and the day had barely started.

That's when it hit me: I have an apology addiction. Not metaphorically. Literally.

The Moment I Realized How Bad It Was

My friend Marcus called me out during lunch that same week. We were meeting at a café, and I was running five minutes late. When I arrived, breathless and apologetic, he just stared at me and said, "Stop. You apologized via text. You apologized when you got here. You've now apologized three times total. For five minutes. This is insane."

He was right, and it stung because I knew he was. But here's the thing about chronic over-apologizers: we often can't help ourselves. It's not actually about politeness or manners. It's something deeper.

Research from the University of Waterloo found that women apologize significantly more than men—roughly 2-3 times per week compared to men's average of 1-2 times. But what fascinated me wasn't the gender gap itself. It was that the study defined an apology as "saying 'I'm sorry'"—not necessarily apologizing for something you actually did wrong. Many of the apologies people documented weren't apologetic at all in the traditional sense. They were cushioning. They were preemptive. They were protective.

I realized I fit that pattern perfectly.

Where Does This Even Come From?

My therapist, who I started seeing specifically to address this, traced mine back to childhood. My parents were loving but volatile. My dad had a short temper. Not abusive, but unpredictable. You never quite knew which version of him you'd get on any given day. So I became hypervigilant. I apologized preemptively. I made myself small. I assumed blame for things that had nothing to do with me—his bad mood, a canceled family trip, tension between my parents.

The message I internalized was simple: If I'm apologizing, I'm controlling the narrative. If I say sorry first, maybe I can prevent the anger.

Turns out, this is incredibly common. Child development experts note that kids who grow up in unpredictable or chaotic environments often develop what they call "appeasement behaviors." Apologizing becomes a survival mechanism. It works for a while. But then you grow up, and you're apologizing to baristas for existing, and your friends think you're either incredibly passive or secretly manipulative (I've asked), and you realize something needs to change.

The Hidden Cost of Constant Apologies

Here's what nobody tells you: saying sorry all the time actually diminishes your credibility. When you apologize for everything, apologizing for something real means nothing. Your apologies become background noise.

But there's something even more damaging. Chronic apologizing erodes your sense of self. Every time you say sorry for taking up space, or for having an opinion, or for existing during inconvenient moments, you're reinforcing the belief that you shouldn't be here. That your needs are inherently inconvenient. That you're somehow always in the way.

I started noticing this pattern in meetings at work. I'd apologize before sharing ideas. "Sorry, this might be stupid, but..." I'd apologize for disagreeing. "Sorry, I see it differently, but..." I'd apologize for taking up time. "Sorry for talking so much, but I wanted to mention..." My coworkers—especially the men—would just say their ideas. No preamble. No cushioning. No apology.

And you know what? People listened to them more.

Breaking the Cycle (It's Harder Than It Sounds)

Changing this required actual, deliberate practice. Not motivation or sudden insight—those didn't stick. Practice. Like breaking any other habit.

First, I started catching myself. I'd notice the word "sorry" forming and pause. Is this actually an apology for something I did wrong? Or is this me trying to manage someone else's reaction to my existence? The distinction matters enormously.

Second, I started replacing apologies with other phrases. Instead of "Sorry I'm late," I'd say "Thank you for waiting." Instead of "Sorry for my opinion," I'd say "Here's what I think." This felt awkward and aggressive at first. Like I was being rude. I wasn't. I was just... talking normally. The discomfort was mine alone.

Third—and this was crucial—I had to sit with people's reactions. Not everyone liked the change. Some people seemed disappointed that I was less apologetic, less accommodating, less... available for blame. And I realized that was information. Some relationships had been built on my willingness to absorb responsibility that wasn't mine. That wasn't actually a relationship. That was a transaction.

If you're constantly apologizing and wondering if there's something wrong with you, you might relate to what I'm talking about. This connects deeply to something I wrote about elsewhere: Why I Stopped Trying to Be the 'Right' Version of Myself and Started Actually Living. Because chronic apologizing is just another way we shrink ourselves trying to fit into a version of ourselves that keeps everyone else comfortable.

Three Months Later

I still apologize. I'm not cured or whatever. But I apologize significantly less. And here's the wild part: nobody's mad about it. The world didn't collapse. People still like me. Some might even like me more because I'm not constantly performing this anxious, self-deprecating version of myself.

Marcus noticed first. He said, "You seem less sorry about everything." That's not a poetic observation, but it's true. I am less sorry. And more okay with taking up space. And that's made all the difference.