My formal expression of remorse to the people who feel wronged by me:
To my ex-husband: Sorry for being so nice to you when you deserved a taste of your own medicine. It was naive of me to think you’d man up and become a father for your daughter. Instead, you became a broken record. Which cycle are we in now? In the hospital for a car accident? Getting evicted? Lost your job? Just broken? What’s your crisis today?
To my stepdaughters’ mom: I’m sorry I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to love your children and include them in the life their father and I were building. I thought after a few years you would move past being upset over your own personal choices and where life led you. But you like listening to your high school prom song on repeat—nostalgic of the time when you thought you had it all. Eleven years later, and you still tell the fairytale of when you were wronged. Do you need me to apologize to mommy too?
To the JV cheer coach at the high school: I apologize. You may have taken my input as criticism because you weren’t intellectually ready to accept and respond to feedback. I’m sorry that you saw my assertiveness as superiority, but I saw you as a partner and equal and someone I wanted to work with-I don’t play high school games. You wanted the spotlight to yourself. You wanted to be drama queen-oops, I mean prom queen.
To my ex-husband’s ex-wife: I’m sorry you couldn’t have the family you wanted. Needing my daughter to complete your family portrait. Silly of you to think I was the one ruining your white picket fence. Girl, we were always on the same team. I never hated you, but I knew what he was doing to you. And to your daughter—yes, sweetie, I wasn’t a liar. He really is domestically violent.
To the racists: I’m sorry my skin color bothers you. The funny thing is, I’m actually more “white” than I look. I was born in the United States. I’m 60% Asian, 30% European, and 10% native Mexican. Sorry that my skin color confuses you. Instead of spiraling, just let me exist.
And to the patriarchy, I will never apologize to. Our female bodies aren’t property. Our portals to another life belong to our mothers—your mother. Women are life’s enchantment—something soft and magical that needs protection, not war.
Finally, to myself—the only person I allow to apologize to me. Sorry I let you put up with the brutalities of the world when all you wanted was kindness and reciprocity. My biggest apology is watching the little girl in you rise in adversity while still remaining kind and curious. When the world magnifies your mistakes, continue learning.
