There is a kind of apology that looks like accountability. It uses all the right words, sounds reflective, and humble.
It can be long, emotional, poetic, tortured, sincere-sounding, and it can contain the full vocabulary set:
“I am ashamed.”
“I am deeply sorry.”
“I have caused harm.”
“I have learned so much.”
“I know I do not deserve forgiveness.”
“I am humbled.”
But none of those words mean anything if the behaviour remains the same. And I think that is the piece we do not say enough, because we have been trained to treat apologies like magical moral currency—like if someone says the correct incantation, the slate is wiped clean. As if remorse itself is repair. Maybe the first time it is.
After that? Not so much.
An apology is not a reset button you press to return to comfort. It was never a “get out of consequences free” card. It is certainly not emotional spackle—the kind you smear into the cracks of damage to make everything appear smooth again from a distance.
Because if the pattern continues, the apology becomes part of the pattern. And then it is no longer accountability, it is maintenance or a tactic.
The most disturbing apology is not the obvious one—the half-hearted “sorry you feel that way” gaslight. It is the polished almost-nice apology. The one that sounds like it was written after a deep night of self-reflection and tea brewed from the leaves of AI-scripted redemption.
The one that includes lines like: “I do not expect you to respond.”
Which is… funny. Because it is almost always sent specifically to make you respond.
That phrase is not respect, it is pressure. It tries to trap you in a no-win situation: If you reply, they get what they wanted: access. If you do not reply, you become the cold one, the cruel one, the unreasonable one.
So the “I do not expect a response” line is not a release. It is a barbed hook. It makes your empathy the lever they pull.
Apologies can be full of truth. Remorse can be real. But remorse is not a substitute for change. There is a difference between feeling bad and doing better. The world is full of people who feel bad constantly, dramatically, loudly… while still continuing the same actions that cause harm. This is where the apology becomes dangerous. It makes harm look like something else: a mistake, a learning journey, or a wounded person who deserves compassion.
Harm without change is not a mistake. It is a choice.
That shame is NOT proof of growth.
Shame can be performative.
Shame can be used as a weapon.
Shame can be used to control the narrative.
Sometimes shame is just someone refusing to tolerate discomfort—and outsourcing it to you.
If they can make you respond, comfort them, reassure them, forgive them, then they no longer have to sit with what they did.
Their guilt becomes your job. And that is not healing; that is emotional debt collection.
A real apology rarely sounds dramatic. It tends to sound annoyingly simple, even unimpressive:
- “I did X. That was wrong.”
- “I understand how it affected you.”
- “I will not do it again.”
- “Here is what I am changing.”
And then—this part matters most— they stop.
They do not keep fishing, sending updates, or trying to provoke engagement through confusion, crisis, or guilt.
They do not keep contacting you while claiming they will not contact you. Because the most respectful thing an apologetic person can do is not speak: it is to contain themselves.
The problem with constant apologetic texting is that it keeps you in the loop. Even if you do not answer, you are still being recruited:
- to witness their pain
- to carry their shame
- to interpret their intentions
- to monitor their stability
- to be the human wall they throw themselves at
You become the manager of their conscience. And when you finally withdraw from that role—when you finally stop responding—suddenly the remorse gets even louder.
Bigger. More urgent. More pathetic. Because the true goal is not accountability. The true goal is re-engagement.
This is hard for kind people to accept. Especially women. Especially caretakers. Especially those of us trained by childhood to keep everyone calm.
But I have learned: Some apologies are not about repair. They are about: regaining access, preserving the relationship on their terms, controlling how they are perceived, and rewriting the narrative so you feel guilty for not returning.
And that is why “I’m sorry” starts sounding less like remorse and more like manipulation. Because it is not being used to end harm. It is being used to end their discomfort.
I do not evaluate apologies by how beautifully they are written. I judged them based on what happens next. Because the only apology that matters is changed behaviour. No amount of tears, pleading, prose, claims of change or shame.
If the behaviour doesn’t change, then the apology is not about repair. It is spackle left in the tube. And I am no longer interested in living inside patched-over damage.
