I’m Sorry
Saying "I'm sorry" doesn't seem like a lot, but saying it with heart—even when there are no words— is often the most important thing you can give to someone who's been living with trauma.
When I was a little kid, I always thought I was wrong. It was easier than standing up for myself—because standing up might mean they’d find out something more about me—something that could get me in trouble—and leave me hiding in shame.
So I learned to be quiet. I learned to never expect an apology. How could I if I was always the one at fault?
My older brother used to say, “I’m always right, even when I’m wrong.” In other words: I could never be right. It was a no-win position—even before I started playing the game.
It was a perfect setup for what Martin Seligman called learned helplessness, after watching mice starve themselves when they got shocked every time they pressed the bar to deliver food.
Sadly, history has shown us where voicelessness and unacknowledged pain can lead.
This has happened to a lot of people—over 6 million Jews who were once “chosen” by someone convinced he was saving the world. That kind of righteous cruelty can rise again—especially when we give up our voice, and no apology is ever spoken.
As I’ve gotten older, and a little wiser, it gets under my skin when someone apologizes too much or says nothing at all. But what bothers me even more is when someone pretends to apologize.
You know the kind: they acknowledge your version of the story, but not your pain. They offer an excuse—not responsibility. It’s just another way to be right while making it look like they’re giving you something you wanted, when really, it’s what they wanted all along.
Some people still haven’t learned that there’s a difference between saying “I’m sorry” and being sorry.
One fills the silence. The other begins to heal it.
And then there are those who swallow their truth—even when they know they were owed an apology. That’s hard to stomach, too—for those who stay silent, and for the others who never hear the truth.
Because when the truth stays buried, the wound doesn’t heal. It just hides deeper.
A true apology means stepping into someone else’s shoes—trying to feel what they feel. Not to fix it, not to justify it—but simply to say: I see you. I feel it with you.
Those of us who’ve been through trauma know how much an apology means—even if it comes years later. And even if it doesn’t come from the one who hurt us.
That’s why I sometimes find myself saying I’m sorry—not for what I did, but as a witness to someone else’s pain. To someone who was told it was all their fault—and ended up believing it.
So, if you ever get the chance—apologize. Not to be right. Not to fix. But because someone’s pain deserves to be acknowledged—even if you didn’t mean to reopen an old wound. Even if the pain it touched began long before you ever entered the story.
And if you’re reading this now, I just want to say: I’m sorry—to the ones who never did anything wrong but thought that they did—and carried the pain.
I’m also sorry for the forgotten ones inside who learned to stay quiet. To the wounded parts still waiting to hear it, let yourself say these sacred words—I’m sorry. Hear them now and feel the forgiveness in your heart.
I’m sorry. I really am. You’re not alone anymore.
With me as your witness, let them know—those parts of you still holding the pain—that you, their future self, can’t stop others from being insensitive. But you can listen to them now. And you can offer what was needed back then—the apology you both never received, but always deserved. Your true power arises when you can forgive yourself—and the other person.
And let the refrain of this old song carry you: I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I feel you in my heart.
I just said this to my wife, who has been carrying the weight of my recent surgery, where I need to be non-weight-bearing. She told me, “You have nothing to apologize for. That’s just what we do when one of us isn’t feeling well and is hurting.”
I replied, “I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but I want to acknowledge the pain you’ve been carrying because of my surgery. You always deserved better.”
She quickly said, “I love you, honey, with all my heart. But right now, I need to say goodnight.”
I responded, “I love you, too. That’s why it’s important to let you know that I see you—and I won’t look away just because it makes me feel uncomfortable.”
She thanked me for saying that and said, “Nite nite. It was a long day. I wish I could talk more, but I need to get some rest.”
And you can sleep on that, too—no matter whether you’re a therapist, a patient, or simply someone close to heart.
No words—just kind, soulful eyes, like the ones in the photo above—your presence saying: “I’m holding the pain with you. You’re not alone. I’m so sorry. And thank you—for all you do, and for who you are.”
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold, or long to be held by, in the light of invisibility.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.