You didn’t just witness the harm. You caused it. And that changes everything.
We live in a culture that often confuses regret with responsibility. We say things like:
- “I’m sorry this happened.”
- “I feel terrible about what you went through.”
- “It’s unfortunate, and I really wish things were different.”
These statements can sound like apologies. They can even feel sincere. But as philosopher Nick Smith reminds us in I Was Wrong: The Meanings of Apologies, sincerity alone isn’t enough.
At the heart of any real apology lies a deep and difficult truth: causation and moral responsibility. The understanding that I didn’t just feel bad about what happened—I caused it. And I am accountable for it.
That distinction changes everything.
The Courage to Say: “It Was Because of Me”
When something painful happens, it’s natural to look for explanations. But when we’re the ones responsible for the pain, our instinct is often to soften the story. To distance ourselves from the outcome.
We say:
- “It wasn’t intentional.”
- “I didn’t mean it that way.”
- “It just got out of hand.”
But Smith pushes us to look more honestly. Moral responsibility is not about intentions alone—it’s also about outcomes and ownership. If our actions—or inactions—caused harm, then we are responsible, even if we didn’t mean to cause it.
To say “I’m sorry” without acknowledging that you caused the harm is to apologize for the weather, not for your choices.
Why Causation Matters
Imagine someone crashes into your parked car, then walks away saying, “I’m sorry this happened.” That’s not enough. You’d want them to say, “I hit your car. I wasn’t paying attention. It was my fault.”
Now replace the car with something far more fragile—your heart, your trust, your dignity.
When someone harms us, we don’t just want sympathy. We want them to say, “This didn’t just happen. I did this. I caused this. And I own it.”
That’s what moral responsibility sounds like.
Responsibility Without Intent? Yes.
Smith makes a powerful point: moral responsibility doesn’t require malicious intent.
You can be morally responsible even if you didn’t mean to hurt someone. If your negligence, carelessness, or recklessness led to harm, then you are still accountable.
This is why people sometimes recoil at apologies that include the phrase “I didn’t mean to…” It can sound like an attempt to dodge blame. But true moral maturity means being able to say:
“I didn’t mean to hurt you—but I see now that I did. And my lack of intention doesn’t erase the pain I caused.”
Intent explains behavior. Responsibility claims it.
Facing Complexity Without Hiding
Life isn’t simple. Often, harm emerges from a tangle of motives, circumstances, and misunderstandings. But owning causation means we don’t hide behind that complexity. We step into it with integrity.
Maybe you didn’t act alone. Maybe the situation was messy. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t part of what went wrong. A meaningful apology resists the urge to say, “It’s complicated” and instead says, “Let me show you the part I played.”
When we accept our role clearly and fully, we honor the truth. And we make space for trust to be rebuilt.
The Gift of Responsibility
It might sound strange, but taking responsibility can be a gift—not just to others, but to ourselves.
When we admit we caused harm, we also claim our power to make amends, to grow, to choose differently next time. We move from passive regret to active repair.
Causation isn’t a burden to avoid—it’s a gateway to transformation.
Reflection Questions for Readers:
- Have you ever apologized without acknowledging your role in causing harm? What held you back?
- Has someone ever “apologized” to you without taking real responsibility? How did that feel?
- What would it mean to say today: “This didn’t just happen. I caused it. And I take ownership of it.”
We all make mistakes. We all hurt others—sometimes carelessly, sometimes deeply. But when we have the courage to accept both causation and responsibility, our apologies become more than words. They become moments of truth, and invitations to rebuild what was broken.
And that, perhaps, is the most powerful form of healing we can offer.