The Apology You Never Got
There’s a before and after. Before, I was the lawyer who never missed a deadline, the partner who’d work through the twins’ bedtime, the woman who’d apologize for breathing too loudly in a meeting. My life was a cage of my own making: 12-hour days, perfectionism as a shield, and the quiet terror that if I stopped, I’d vanish. I’d tell myself, Just one more hour. They’ll understand.
The after began with spilled cereal. My twins, age 3, screaming over a milk spill on the kitchen floor. I snapped—not at them, but at the sheer, suffocating weight of it all. I sank to the floor, tears mixing with the milk, whispering, I can’t do this anymore. Not the job. Not the twins. The me I’d become.
That’s when it hit me: I’d been waiting for an apology I’d never get. Not from my boss for the impossible deadlines, not from my husband for the “help” he never gave, not even from my own exhausted self. The apology I needed wasn’t from them. It was from me. I’m sorry I let you disappear.
Here’s what no one tells you: Burnout isn’t a failure of will—it’s a failure of boundaries. I’d spent years apologizing for my needs, for my limits, for simply being human. I learned this the hard way so you don’t have to: You don’t owe anyone your exhaustion. You don’t owe them your silence when you’re drowning.
The shift wasn’t dramatic. No grand resignation. Just small, brutal choices: Saying “no” to a client call at 7 p.m. because I’d promised to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to my twins. Asking my husband to take the morning with the kids so I could sleep. Letting the email pile up. I stopped apologizing for existing. Boundaries weren’t selfish—they were survival.
Now? I teach others to draw that line before they’re on the floor with spilled milk. I don’t say “I’m sorry I’m not perfect.” I say, “I’m sorry I let you down by not protecting my own peace.” And I mean it.
You don’t need permission to stop. You don’t need an apology to begin again. Start where you are. Stop apologizing for the space you need to breathe.
— Tracy Carlson, drawing the line
— Francisco Meyer, still earning the second chance