We say “I’m sorry” so easily—but do we mean it?
There’s something almost haunting about a true apology. It lingers in the heart long after the words have been spoken. Not because it reopens wounds, but because it tends to them—carefully, deliberately, and with dignity.
In his profound book I Was Wrong: The Meanings of Apologies, philosopher Nick Smith examines this powerful, often fumbled act. One chapter stands out for its intimacy and universal resonance: “Apologies from Individuals.”
It begins with a truth many of us know but rarely admit—apologizing well is one of the hardest things we will ever learn to do. We may stumble through public statements or send awkward texts to friends. We may apologize to our children, our parents, our partners. But how often do we step fully into that space of humility and truth, offering not just words but transformation?
What Makes a Real Apology?
Smith introduces the idea of a “categorical apology”—not a checklist, but a complete moral gesture. A real apology, he says, is not a one-liner. It involves:
- Admitting what happened, clearly and factually.
- Accepting full blame—without excuses, without dodging.
- Naming the harm, and recognizing the pain caused.
- Affirming the moral values that were violated.
- Expressing genuine regret.
- Offering redress—if possible.
- Promising not to repeat the wrongdoing.
- Showing, through action, that something in us has changed.
Sound like a lot? It is. And that’s the point.
A categorical apology is rare. It costs something. It’s not just about making things right—it’s about becoming someone who wants to be right, who is willing to confront their own darkness and take responsibility for the damage left behind.
Why Most Apologies Fail
Most of us know what it feels like to receive a non-apology. “I’m sorry if you were hurt.” “I didn’t mean to upset you.” “Let’s just move on.” These phrases sound polite, even remorseful. But they skip the hard part: the ownership of harm.
Smith warns that such gestures, while common, can do more harm than good. They pacify instead of heal. They aim to silence rather than engage. And worst of all, they may manipulate the one who was hurt into granting forgiveness prematurely, or falsely.
This is especially cruel in intimate relationships. When trust has been broken, a hollow apology feels like being wounded twice—the first from the act itself, the second from the denial of its full weight.
Why Apologies Matter So Much
But when someone truly apologizes to us—when they name what they did, express real sorrow, and seek to make it right—we feel seen. Our pain is validated. Our dignity is affirmed. And sometimes, for the first time since the harm, we breathe easier.
Smith doesn’t romanticize apologies. He sees them as moral labor. Hard, messy, and essential. He writes that apologies help us remember who we want to be, and who others deserve us to be. They re-establish the boundaries of our values. They say: “This should not have happened. You did not deserve this. And I take full responsibility.”
In a world that often rewards denial, distraction, and deflection, an honest apology is radical.
The Apology We Owe Ourselves
One of the most tender parts of Smith’s work is his exploration of unusual cases—apologizing to infants, the deceased, even to ourselves.
And maybe that’s where this all comes home.
Most of us have moments we regret—not just for how we hurt others, but for how we betrayed our own values. We carry shame quietly. We wish we could take back what we said. We ache at what we failed to see.
Apologizing to ourselves is not self-indulgent. It is a step toward moral clarity. It means saying: “I forgive myself for not knowing better. But now I do. And I must do better.”
The Courage to Begin Again
Apologizing well doesn’t guarantee forgiveness. It doesn’t erase the harm. But it opens the door to reconciliation, to accountability, to growth.
It’s not easy.
But maybe it starts with a quiet truth whispered to someone we love: “I was wrong. I see that now. And I want to make it right.”
Or maybe it starts with a message we send. A letter we write. A mirror we face.
However it begins, a real apology marks the end of pretense—and the beginning of integrity.