Before you can say “I’m sorry,” you have to say what happened.
When someone apologizes to us, what do we really want? Yes, we want regret. Yes, we want accountability. But most of all—we want the truth.
Nick Smith, in his illuminating book I Was Wrong: The Meanings of Apologies, identifies the corroborated factual record as the foundational element of any real apology. It might sound clinical, even bureaucratic. But in truth, it’s the soul of the gesture.
Before there can be healing, there must be clarity.
Why the Truth Matters First
Imagine someone harms you—a betrayal, a lie, a deep disappointment. When they come to apologize, they murmur, “I’m sorry for whatever I did to upset you.” What does that tell you? That they still don’t see it. That they haven’t understood the harm. That they are, perhaps, more interested in smoothing things over than in making things right.
Contrast that with this: “I’m sorry I lied to you about where I was last weekend. I told you I was at work, but I was with someone else. You asked me directly, and I chose to deceive you. That was wrong. And I know that lie broke the trust between us.”
In the second case, something changes. The air clears. The fog lifts. Even if the wound still aches, at least it has been named. This naming—the careful, factual acknowledgment of what happened—is what Smith calls the corroborated factual record.
It’s the starting point of every sincere apology.
The Temptation to Be Vague
Let’s be honest: it’s easier to be vague. It’s easier to say “I didn’t mean to hurt you” than “I made a selfish decision and didn’t care how it would affect you.” It’s easier to say “Things just happened” than “I knew what I was doing, and I did it anyway.”
But vagueness is a form of self-protection. It’s a way to say the words without feeling the weight.
Smith argues that genuine apologies require a courageous commitment to detail—not because we want to rehash the pain, but because we want to honor the truth. A meaningful apology invites us to say: “Let’s agree on what happened—clearly, fully, and honestly—so we can begin to repair what’s been broken.”
Truth Is Not Just for the Victim—It’s for the Apologizer, Too
Apologies aren’t just for those we’ve hurt. They’re also for ourselves.
To tell the truth—without distortion, minimization, or justification—is to stand face to face with who we’ve been. And that takes moral strength. It means resisting the urge to smooth over the story, or to hide behind half-truths. It means owning the full weight of our choices.
And only then can we begin to change.
As Smith puts it, when we establish a factual record, we lay the groundwork for every other part of an apology: responsibility, remorse, restitution, and reform. Without it, the rest collapses. It’s like building a house on sand.
In a Culture of Spin, Clarity Is Radical
We live in a world of deflection. Public figures issue apologies that avoid any specific facts: “Mistakes were made.” “I regret the situation.” “It was never my intention.” These phrases sound remorseful, but they offer no substance. They leave victims feeling gaslit and unheard.
But even in our private lives, we fall into the same patterns. We say, “Sorry if I hurt you,” instead of “I lied to you.” We say, “It wasn’t my intention,” instead of “I chose my convenience over your dignity.”
A true apology resists euphemism. It speaks plainly. And in doing so, it honors the person we hurt as someone who deserves the truth.
Where to Begin: The Courage to Look Back Clearly
If you’re struggling to apologize—or waiting for an apology from someone else—start with this: What happened? What do both people agree happened?
It may not be easy to piece together. Memory is slippery. Motives are murky. But even the attempt to see clearly, to speak honestly, is a moral act. It says, “You matter enough to me for me to look this full in the face.”
And sometimes, it’s in that moment of shared clarity that the healing quietly begins.