On Apologizing for Existing

My boyfriend has pointed out many times that I apologize too much. At first, I never really knew what to say when he mentioned it. I would usually laugh awkwardly, feel a little embarrassed, and sometimes even apologize for apologizing, which honestly just proved his point. It wasn't until he brought it up repeatedly that I started paying attention to how often I actually say "I'm sorry" and, more importantly, why I say it.

When I started noticing it, I realized that most of the times I apologize excessively are when I'm with him. I apologize for not understanding something the first time he explains it, for asking him to repeat himself, for crying, for looking at him too much, for asking him if he's okay several times in a short period of time, and for little things that, when I actually think about them, don't really deserve an apology. There was even a time when we were joking around, he gave me a side-eye as a joke, and I immediately thought he was annoyed with me and apologized. He wasn't annoyed. He was literally just joking. But my brain had already decided that I had done something wrong before I even knew if that was true.

The strange thing is that I don't apologize like this with everyone. It mostly happens with him, and I think that's because his opinion of me matters so much. When I care deeply about someone, every little thing feels important. A small misunderstanding doesn't just feel like a misunderstanding; sometimes it feels like proof that I failed somehow. I think that's where the fear comes from: if I don't apologize, people might think I don't care about them. Somehow, in my mind, apologizing became a way of showing love, even when there is nothing to apologize for.

The funny thing is that if the situation was reversed, I wouldn't expect him to apologize for the things I apologize for. If he didn't understand something I told him, I wouldn't think he was careless. If he cried, I wouldn't think he was being annoying. If he needed reassurance, I wouldn't think he was too much. I would just see him as a person having a human moment. So why do I have completely different standards for myself?

I think part of the answer comes from growing up. When I was younger, anger was not really treated as a valid emotion. If I was angry, I was told I was overreacting, being dramatic, or that I had no reason to feel that way. Eventually, I learned to dismiss my own anger before anyone else could. I stopped recognizing it as something important. Mistakes also felt different depending on who I made them around. With my mom, mistakes were usually things to fix. With my dad, they could feel like things to be deeply ashamed of. I think, without realizing it, I learned that being easier to deal with was safer.

I learned to be careful. To not be too much. To not create problems. To not make people uncomfortable. And when I felt like I had failed at any of those things, my first instinct was to apologize.

The thing is, my boyfriend has never asked me to be smaller. If anything, he has been the person who makes me want to show more of myself. I have told him things about me that I thought might scare him away, and he stayed. The way he looks at me, the things he says, and the way he handles problems make me believe that he isn't someone who will leave the moment something becomes difficult. I know that he wants to solve problems with me, not abandon me because of them.

But knowing something logically doesn't always make the fear disappear. There is still a part of me that wonders, "What if one day he sees all of me and decides I'm too much? What if I'm too complicated? What if I'm too stained?" I think that's the part of me that still expects love to have conditions. The part that believes I have to earn the right to be accepted by being easy to love.

Maybe that's why I apologize so much. Not because I think I am always doing something wrong, but because I am afraid of damaging something that matters to me. Maybe my apologies aren't always apologies. Maybe sometimes they are questions disguised as words: Are we okay? Did I ruin something? Do you still want me here?

I don't know if I'm asking for forgiveness when I say "I'm sorry." Maybe I'm asking for reassurance. Maybe I'm asking for permission to exist without constantly proving that I deserve to be there.

And maybe the hardest part isn't learning to stop saying "I'm sorry." Maybe it's learning to believe someone when they tell me that I never needed to apologize for being myself in the first place.