An apology is not just a confession—it is a conversation. But only if you truly see the person you hurt.
There’s a moment in every meaningful apology when something quiet, but sacred, happens: the person who caused harm looks into the eyes of the person they’ve hurt—not just as someone who suffered, but as someone who matters. As someone whose values count. Whose voice deserves to be heard. Whose moral judgment has weight.
Philosopher Nick Smith, in I Was Wrong: The Meanings of Apologies, calls this essential act the recognition of the victim as a moral interlocutor.
The word interlocutor might sound academic, but its meaning is simple and profound: it means recognizing the other as a rightful conversational partner in matters of ethics and truth.
In the context of apology, it means this: You don’t just speak at them—you speak with them. You don’t just feel bad about what happened—you acknowledge that they are someone whose moral perception counts.
This is what separates a real apology from a self-serving performance. Because at its core, apology is not just about the wrongdoer—it’s about the person who was wronged.
Why This Recognition Matters
When someone hurts us, what we most often lose is not just our comfort, our peace, or our trust—but our dignity. We feel dismissed, invisible, less than.
And so, when the person who hurt us finally returns—not just to say, “I’m sorry,” but to say, “I recognize you. I honor your values. I see the harm through your eyes.”—something shifts.
We are restored. Not completely. Not instantly. But meaningfully.
Because in that moment, we’re no longer just a silent witness to our own suffering—we’re a full participant in the moral conversation that the apology is meant to be.
Apologies That Deny This Recognition
Unfortunately, many apologies do the opposite. They may sound polished or tearful, but they fail to center the person who was harmed.
Some examples:
- “I said what I said because I was stressed.”
- “Let’s just move on—it’s in the past.”
- “I’m sorry if you were offended.”
These kinds of apologies speak around the victim, not to them. They focus on the speaker’s intentions, image, or comfort—while reducing the victim to a passive backdrop.
Smith warns us that such apologies don’t offer recognition—they offer erasure. They signal that the harmed person’s moral voice isn’t being listened to, let alone valued.
What Recognition Sounds Like
To recognize the victim as a moral interlocutor is to treat them as someone who can rightly judge the wrong. Someone whose response to the apology matters—not just emotionally, but ethically.
It means saying:
- “You have the right to be angry, and I want to hear what this felt like from your side.”
- “Your sense of betrayal makes sense, and I want to understand it better.”
- “This apology isn’t about me clearing my conscience. It’s about us rebuilding trust—together.”
This kind of apology requires humility. It means stepping down from center stage. It means saying: “This is your story, too. Your values, your pain, and your voice matter here.”
Why This Is So Difficult—and So Necessary
Recognition can feel vulnerable. Especially if we fear judgment or rejection. To acknowledge the other as a moral interlocutor is to give them power—the power to disagree, to challenge, to withhold forgiveness, to speak hard truths.
But Smith reminds us: this vulnerability is the very heart of moral growth. Without it, apology becomes a monologue. With it, it becomes a conversation—and a path toward repair.
Beyond Words: Listening with Moral Intent
Recognition isn’t just what you say. It’s how you listen. It’s your willingness to let the other person’s account of what happened reshape your understanding of it.
It’s not defensive.
It’s not performative.
It’s not a formality.
It’s a form of ethical respect.
Reflection Questions for Readers:
- Have you ever received an apology that failed to recognize your moral perspective? How did that affect your healing?
- Have you ever apologized without fully listening to the other person’s account of the harm?
- What would it mean to say, “Tell me what this meant to you. I want to understand not just what I did—but how it felt, and why it matters.”
Restoring Dignity, One Word at a Time
The most powerful part of an apology isn’t always the admission of guilt. Sometimes, it’s the moment when the wrongdoer turns and says—not with words alone, but with presence—“You matter. Your truth matters. I’m not here to control the story. I’m here to listen to it.”
That’s what it means to recognize someone as a moral interlocutor.
And sometimes, that’s the very thing a wounded soul needs most:
Not to be pitied.
Not to be managed.
But to be seen.
And heard.
And honored.