How easy do you find it to say sorry?
This weekend I found myself in the position of having to eat humble pie. Why? Because I:
Jumped to conclusions
Lost my temper
Projected my feelings onto others
No, I wasn’t the only one at fault—but historically, this sort of situation would not have ended well. I would have refused to take responsibility for my part in it, and the fallout would have been messy.
I won’t go into all the details, but suffice it to say it involved my daughter, her good friends (who are also the sons of one of my very good friends), and a bunch of reactive parents—me and my good friend included.
And the bottom line is: I didn’t handle it as well as I would have liked.
Afterwards, I found my hands shaking.
I shook my head ruefully, because I know that’s a sign I’ve let my feelings overrule my head. I also know that no good comes of it. And yet, the voice in my head still said: You should be past this by now.
And indeed, no good came of it. My friend phoned me—absolutely furious. I’m going to tell you how I dealt with it.
As a child, do you remember adults saying sorry to you? I don’t. Not once. Even to this day, my birth family find it incredibly hard to apologise.
These days, though, I’ve recognised the power of that word, and I’m usually the first one to say it.
Why? Because in some situations, it’s the easiest—and best—thing to do, regardless of whether you feel fully at fault.
But when we grow up without a model of what real apology looks like, we assume that saying sorry is a sign of weakness.
As a young person, I would do anything to avoid it. I would argue black was white. I would cut people off rather than admit I’d contributed to the conflict.
The trouble with this approach is that while it looks like we’re denying responsibility, we’re actually doing the opposite. We’re assuming we’re to blame for everything. Why else would it feel so painful to even look?
So yesterday, when my friend phoned me and we exchanged angry words, I felt the red mist rising. But this time, my conflict transformation training kicked in. I began to ask myself:
What is my priority here?
What can I do to be honest and vulnerable?
What will happen if I do?
My priority became clear: to maintain a friendship I value. (It was NOT to be right.)
So I listened. I reflected. I checked for truth in her criticism. (There was some.)
And then I apologised. But there’s an art to apology I want to explore with you.
If you’re standing on the threshold of wanting to be honest and accountable—and yet it feels unbearably painful—this part is for you.
One reason we can wreak havoc as people with RSD is that we long for connection, but we feel too vulnerable to reach it through the usual channels:
Consistency
Vulnerability
Compromise
Instead, we often default (without realising it) to:
Control
Manipulation
Avoidance
The first step is admitting to ourselves—bravely—that this is an area of weakness. Not making excuses. Simply saying: I need to work on this. It’s an area I never learned to grow in.
There is no shame in that.
Often, the reason we didn’t learn is simple: we were too busy surviving. Like warriors in battle—we did what we had to do. But peace time requires different skills.
To use my example, I had to face the truth: I had taken my daughter’s side without question. Rookie mistake. I was flabbergasted I hadn’t even noticed, or remembered my training: there are no right answers, only perspectives.
That’s when the shame came. That’s when it was tempting to avoid, manipulate, or control so I could still feel “right.”
That’s also when it was time to say sorry.
What’s the point of “sorry”?
With my daughter, I sometimes say: I’m not interested in sorry. I want to know:
That you understand what was unacceptable
That you understand why it was unacceptable
What you’re going to do to make it right
That’s the art of apology. And it’s often overlooked. Too often, we treat “sorry” as a magic word to reset everything. Then, when it’s rejected, it hurts worse and damages the relationship further.
So first, get clear on why you’re apologising.
The wrong reasons:
To “make things right” or erase what happened
To stop someone being mad at us
To stop feeling responsible
To silence the other person
To prove ourselves right
The right reasons:
To open the lines of communication
To learn more about the part of us that’s trying to protect
To begin repairing damage
To act in line with our values and standards
To build connection
Notice: the “right” reasons don’t necessarily lead to a neat ending. They might open up uncomfortable truths. They might take time. But they lead somewhere real.
If apology can feel painful and uncertain, why bother?
Because sometimes, it works.
When we own our shortcomings and apologise sincerely, it can deepen connection, repair relationships, and spark personal growth. It can shift us from obsessing over “right and wrong” into living by standards and values.
But let’s be honest. Sometimes, an apology is received badly.
I’ve apologised sincerely, only for the other party to dump all the blame on me—because I had admitted fault. I thought I was opening the door to dialogue. They thought I was closing it.
This is where boundaries come in. Not everyone is ready—or willing—to own their part.
So the questions become:
What can I reasonably do to make my part right?
Can I do that and then release how they respond?
Is it even possible to live in harmony with this person’s standards and values?
Because sometimes, even after a heartfelt apology, the maelstrom continues. And that’s when tough decisions need to be made.
I apologised to my friend. Specifically, I apologised for not hearing both sides of the story. I promised to do better in the future. It felt hard at first, but the relief at knowing I’d acted in line with my standards and values was massive.
I also apologised to the boys—by voicemail, and in person with a hug and eye contact.
And I was lucky. Both apologies were received. It opened space for them to apologise back and own what they might have done differently.
The result? We all grew. Connection deepened. A chance to love each other better emerged.
Worth the risk? You decide.
If this resonates with you, I want to invite you to my new series: Courageous Conversations—ten stand-alone 90-minute workshops designed to help you transform conflict into an opportunity for growth, self-respect, and deeper connection.
We’ll explore:
The art of apology
Boundaries that protect connection (not destroy it)
How to stay present in conflict without losing yourself
Practical tools to move from shame and blame into clarity and respect
The workshops will be running in October, and they’re intentionally low-cost to keep them accessible.
If you’d like me to send you details when they go live, just reply to this post—I’d love to see you there. 💌
And if this all feels like a step too far, you can also read my book. You’ll find it in my links. It helps you avoid conflict (without feeling like a wimp!)
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