It might have been walking down the aisle of the grocery store when I realized women say they’re sorry and men don’t. Wanting to pass a woman whose cart blocks my way, I say, “Excuse me.” The woman glances back and says, “Sorry,” as she scurries to move her cart. Same scenario with a man, but he glances back and says nothing. I’m lucky if he moves.
The above hasn’t happened just one time. It’s happened so many times I finally realized that women say, “I’m sorry,” and most men don’t.
Why is that? What kind of training led us to believe we had to apologize?
I began playing pickleball again last year. If I had a dollar for every time a woman said, “Sorry,” when she missed a ball, I’d be a wealthy woman. I’ve said the same thing so many times I finally declared myself a sorry-free zone. Why should I apologize for missing a shot? It’s not like I meant to. Must I feel guilty because I’m not a great player? I didn’t intentionally hit the ball on the wrong side of the line. Mea culpa, mea culpa.
Of course, if I accidentally hit my partner, an apology would be warranted. I haven’t done that yet, apparently, preferring to smack myself in the face with my paddle. I didn’t apologize to myself although maybe I should have.
Looking back, I realize I’ve been apologizing my entire life. What could I have done that was so bad? What stands out is the numerous times I apologized when I hit a wrong note practicing my piano lessons. No one was in the room to hear my inadvertent miss or the apology, but apologize I did. I still don’t know why.
Who told me I had to be sorry? Or who showed me I must apologize for everything?
As I’ve gone through this life, I realize that those who should apologize rarely, if ever, do. A prime example is my older half-brother. He never once said he was sorry for the many times he hit me. Not once. Instead, he’d threaten “If you tell mom and dad, you think I hurt you this time? I’ll make it much worse next time.” I believed him and stayed silent.
In 1986, after a week-long retreat with Stephen Levine and Jack Kornfield revealed the depth of my wounding, I came home and wrote my brother a letter. I told him that while I loved him, because he had never apologized, I couldn’t be in his physical presence until he did.
Crickets.
A year later, while walking on the beach in Santa Monica with my cousin visiting from New York, she said, “Your brother’s pissed at you.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“He said you wrote him a letter where you dumped all your shit on him.”
It may surprise you that I reacted with a sense of peace. Why? Because he freed me. I thought to myself, “Why should I believe I have to love someone who so clearly does not love me?”
And, with that, all ties tethering me to this monster were released.
All he had to do was say, “Sorry,” and I would have continued to love him despite who he is. But he couldn’t even give me that much.
Apparently, this well-read, intelligent man had missed the lesson where we learned the word sorry when we’ve hurt someone and all its healing powers.
I was in my twenties when the thought struck me that Hitler probably never felt guilty for one day of his life. If a man like him, responsible for the deaths of millions, never expressed remorse or apologized, what could I have done that was so terrible I needed to be sorry?
But understanding and integrating something are not the same thing. It truly took pickleball—which I think could be renamed, “I’m sorry”—to free me of the reflexive regurgitation of sorry.
Here’s hoping I don’t relapse.
You are wise. Glad your pickleball group has a no sorry rule. “[I] have always suggested that sorry was not a response to an error. Mistakes are part of the learning process.” Great statement.
Love this Ginni! I gave up saying "I'm sorry" almost seven years ago. Instead I say "Thank you for your patience, or I appreciate that you waited." I frame things in the positive rather than the negative. This is a great share...all of your work is.