Apologies: When Sorry isn’t Enough
You know what I’m talking about. That deep, gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking, soul-shattering feeling when you learn your child had a distressing moment—and you weren’t there.
Maybe you got a ping in your texts. Maybe your phone rang. The second you see the caller ID, your stomach drops. A cold sweat creeps up your back. Your mind races and assumes something bad happened (because you have been proven right many times): What happened? How bad is it?
You hesitate. For a second—just a second—you don’t want to read or answer. And then, shame rushes in because what kind of parent doesn’t want to know? So you pick up. You listen. You read. And as the words sink in, the world around you shifts.
It starts slowly, a disorienting tilt. Words begin to blur. Your heart pounds. Your ears buzz. The voice on the other end keeps talking, but you only catch fragments. It’s like that moment in Titanic—when Jack is shackled in a flooding room. The water starts as a trickle, lapping at his ankles. Then his knees. Then his chest. He should be out there, helping, fixing, saving Rose. But instead, he’s trapped. Helpless. The cold is creeping in.
And that’s exactly how it feels. You should be fixing this, stopping this, making it all better—but the icy realization settles in: You can’t.
Apologize. That’s always the first instinct. Apologize. Profusely. Then scramble to fix it.
I know the routine by heart. Shame. Guilt. Embarrassment. They crash over me like waves, knocking the air out of my lungs. Before I even process what I’m being told, the words spill from my mouth: I’m sorry. And then I roll up my sleeves, determined to tackle it so that it will never happen again.
Except deep down, I know that’s a lie. I can’t prevent every distressing moment, no matter how much I wish I could.
And that’s the part no one talks about.
What Are We Really Apologizing For?
There was a time when it was teachers or summer camp counselors making those calls to me. Now, as my children grow, they are the ones telling me. And when they do, it feels like I’ve lost my armor. At least before, I could do something—call a meeting, draft an email, plan an intervention. But now? Now, I just listen. And sometimes, it leaves me feeling utterly helpless.
Recently, my child shared an incident with me. As they talked, I felt it coming—the pounding heart, the tight chest. The urge to do something clawed at me. But instead, the only thing that came out was: I’m sorry. Again. And again. Until even I was exhausted by my own words.
I wanted the feeling to go away. I thought if I apologized enough, it would. But it didn’t. Because the real battle wasn’t with the situation—it was with the voice in my head whispering:
You should have done more.
You missed something.
You failed.
You-are-a-bad-mother.
Fighting Back With Truth
I had to pause. Take a breath. And retrace my steps—not just in that moment, but in the long road we’ve traveled to get here.
I reminded myself:
I listened to my child’s desires and respected their independence.
I gave them tools to navigate challenges.
I taught them how to use those tools.
I let go a little more each time, without hovering.
I celebrated their wins, no matter how small.
I was honest—with myself and with them…
That’s when I realized something powerful: I wasn’t apologizing for my child’s struggle.
I was apologizing for my own fear of not being enough.
And that’s not a burden we should carry.
Breaking the Cycle
I used to believe that if I just kept saying I’m sorry, the guilt would vanish. But it never did. Not fully. Not until I started drowning it out with something stronger.
Truth. Faith. Perspective.
So next time you get that call or that text, I want you to try something different. Imagine this: You set the phone down. Just for a second. You take a deep breath. The icy grip of panic loosens—just a little. You count down in your head. 3-2-1.
And then, instead of bracing yourself for impact, you reach out—not to fix, not to apologize, but to ground yourself. Maybe you call the friend who promised to help: “Hey, help me count and calm down. I just got a call.”
Because you don’t have to be Jack, shackled and sinking. Not this time. You deserve to be Rose—to be held up, to breathe, to survive this moment, too.
And when you do answer? Instead of apologizing, you name what you feel. Not for them—for you. You sit with the discomfort. You acknowledge that, yes, this moment is distressing. But you are not drowning. Yes, the water is cold, and it is rising, but you won’t drown. You’ve been here before. You are here.
Because sometimes, the only thing our child really needs is for us to listen—without guilt, without apology, without trying to erase the struggle. Just listen. Validate. Be present.
I don’t always believe I am a good parent, but I trust that I am. And even in the moments when I don’t believe it, I can have faith that it’s true. I just say it out loud to hear myself. I tell my friend, ‘Tell me I’m a good mom.’ And when they do, I let my ears take it in—even as my mind tries to scare me with the icy waters rising at my feet.
So then, why the impulse to apologize so quickly? Was it because...
My child made others uncomfortable? (And if so, who apologizes for my child?)
I felt responsible for the distress in others? (It’s okay to admit that—once.)
I thought I should have been more prepared? (But was I really unprepared, or is fear distorting my memory?)
I’ve been conditioned to believe that apologizing is necessary for connection, belonging, and acceptance, and I fear people will walk away from my child if I don’t? (But the right people won’t leave.)
And if I don’t apologize profusely, if I simply hold space—will that be enough?
You Are Not Alone
We’ve all felt the crushing weight of our child’s distress. We’ve all wondered if it would be easier if these moments just happened in private, or if we could somehow shield them from every hardship.
But we can’t. And maybe we shouldn’t.
Maybe these moments—the hard ones, the messy ones, the gut-wrenching ones—are where courage is built. Maybe our children don’t need us to erase every struggle, but to stand beside them as they face them. No, that is not easy; in fact, it is so hard, but not only because it is distressing for them, and yes, might be distressing to people around them too, but it is distressing for us.
You’ll figure out what to do next, later. Parents like you and me—we’re professionals at fixing, managing, reacting. That part will come naturally.
But before that, I need you to know: You are not alone. You don’t need to apologize profusely. You are an amazing parent. Imperfect? Yes. But amazing.