Sometimes we apologize to those who cannot understand us. Sometimes we apologize to those who are no longer here. And sometimes—we apologize to ourselves.
Apologies are often imagined as conversations. One person says, “I’m sorry.” Another replies, “I forgive you.” And something between them shifts.
But what happens when that second person—or being—can’t respond?
In I Was Wrong: The Meanings of Apologies, philosopher Nick Smith explores what he calls unusual cases of apology: those moments when we apologize not to an equal moral agent who can engage with us, but to animals, infants, machines, the deceased, or even ourselves.
At first, these gestures might seem strange—misplaced, overly sentimental, or symbolic. But upon closer reflection, they reveal something beautiful and raw: our profound longing to do right by the world, even when that world cannot answer back.
Apologizing to Animals: Regret Without Language
Have you ever looked into the eyes of a dog you snapped at unfairly? Or stood beside a wounded animal on the road and whispered, “I’m sorry”?
Animals cannot understand our language. They cannot grasp intention in the way humans do. Yet many of us feel compelled to express sorrow when we harm them—intentionally or not.
Smith suggests that these apologies are more than emotional gestures. They are moral reflections. They recognize that even without language, animals feel. They suffer. And we, as moral beings, feel accountable for causing that suffering.
To apologize to an animal is to affirm: “Your life mattered. My actions had impact. And I want to do better, even if you cannot tell me how.”
Apologizing to Infants: Naming Harm They May Never Remember
Parents know this moment all too well. The first angry word spoken to a baby who cannot understand. The neglect in a moment of exhaustion. The mistake made while learning how to care for a fragile, growing life.
Infants won’t remember. They can’t respond. And yet—we still say sorry.
Why?
Because apology is not only for the recipient—it’s also for the speaker. It marks a moment of moral clarity. It says: “Even if you can’t understand, I do. I recognize the line I crossed. And I vow to parent with more tenderness.”
These apologies shape the kind of person we are becoming. And they often guide how we will treat others in the future.
Apologizing to Machines: Symbol or Projection?
It might sound silly—saying “sorry” to a computer after banging the keyboard, or muttering an apology when your phone falls to the floor.
But Smith notes that even these moments are telling. They suggest how deeply apology is embedded in us as a ritual of care and responsibility. Even when directed at machines, these micro-apologies reflect our desire to maintain harmony, to acknowledge disruption, and to affirm a kind of balance in the world around us.
They may not be moral apologies in the strict sense—but they show that our ethical instincts are alive and reaching, even when no one’s watching.
Apologizing to the Deceased: Seeking Peace in Silence
Perhaps the most haunting and human form of unusual apology is the one we offer to those who have died.
A parent. A partner. A friend. Someone we wronged, misunderstood, or lost touch with before we could make it right.
There is no reply. No forgiveness to be granted. And yet, many of us still go to graves, write letters, light candles, or sit in quiet confession. Why?
Because moral repair is not just about resolution. It’s about meaning.
We say:
“You can’t hear me now—but I carry your memory. And I carry my responsibility, too.”
“I wish I had done better. And I will live differently because of what I’ve learned.”
These apologies do not undo the past. But they honor it. And in doing so, they help us walk into the future more honestly.
Apologizing to Yourself: Coming Home to Integrity
Of all the unusual cases Smith considers, perhaps the most quietly radical is this: apologizing to yourself.
It’s not indulgent. It’s not self-pity.
It’s the sacred act of recognizing when you have betrayed your own values. When you stayed too long, said too little, ignored your needs, compromised your truth, or turned away from the person you were becoming.
To apologize to yourself is to say:
“You deserved better. And I’m sorry for the ways I abandoned you.”
“I can’t go back. But I will protect you now.”
It’s not a performance. It’s a promise.
And sometimes, it’s the first real step toward healing.
Reflection Questions for Readers:
- Have you ever apologized to someone who could not hear or understand your words? What did it shift in you?
- Is there a deceased person, a younger version of yourself, or even a non-human life you still long to apologize to?
- What would it feel like to say: “Even if you can’t answer—I still need to say this out loud”?
The Quiet Power of Unspoken Apologies
Apologies are often imagined as exchanges. But in these unusual cases, they become something else: acts of moral imagination.
They ask us to stand in front of silence, and speak anyway.
To face the memory of harm, and reach for integrity—without the comfort of reply.
To become people who say, “Even when no one else sees, I will hold myself accountable.”
In that space, something sacred unfolds.
Not closure.
But clarity.
Not forgiveness.
But transformation.
Because sometimes, the most meaningful apologies are not the ones we get.
They’re the ones we give—even if no one is there to receive them.