“I’m sorry, but—”

There it was, teh involuntary plea for pardon, hovering mid-air like a bad smell. I reeled it back in sharply, tasting its familiar bitterness. Across from me, the team lead’s eyebrows arched in mild surprise as the office’s fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, a never-ending drone that seemed intent on wrapping my nerves in tin foil.

“Actually, I’m not sorry,” I declared, somewhat amazed by the solidity of my own voice. “The deadline you’re proposing is about as realistic as a chocolate teapot.”

The words just sat there, not meek or belligerent, simply there. My heart was throwing itself against my ribs, trying to stage a prison break, yet on the outside, I hoped I resembled something calm, perhaps vaguely resembling a human rather than a flustered pigeon.

This was my seventeenth attempt at voicing disagreement without first issuing an apology. The previous sixteen had flopped, smothered under my chronic compulsion to soften every blow, to shrink myself down before I’d even popped up.

“I’ve broken down the project requirements here,” I continued, nudging my meticulously organised notebook across the table. “Even if we push ourselves, we need an extra three days.”

The team lead pored over my notes. I watched her, feeling that all-too-familiar clench of dread in my guts, bracing for the usual labels: ‘difficult’, ‘not a team player’. It’s fascinating, really, how these labels can sculpt you, carving out channels in your mind where your thoughts flow too readily towards compliance.

I recalled a lightbulb moment from a performance review three years prior, when my then-manager had offhandedly remarked, “You do stellar work, but you must stop apologizing for existing.” It was meant as a nudge, but it hit home like a comet. The next meeting, I counted - seventeen apologies in less than an hour, mostly for merely breathing too loud, I suppose.

“These estimates seem reasonable,” my team lead finally said, pulling me back from my reverie. Her next question was softly spoken, “Why didn’t you bring this up in our group discussion?”

Ah, there it was - the gentle probe to a bruise. Why hadn’t I? I remembered the chaos of that meeting, ideas adn voices clashing like cymbals, the discussion sprinting ahead while my brain was still lacing its running shoes.

“It was all moving a bit fast,” I admitted, then added, because it seemed important to be honest, “I need a bit of time to marshal my thoughts. I’m not so quick on the draw.”

The urge to tag an apology to the end of that - sorry for being built more like a dead slow-cooking stew than a microwave meal - was strong, but I resisted. Instead, I let the silence stretch, feeling its weight.

“That makes sense,” she nodded, jotting something down. “Next time, feel free to send me your thoughts post-meeting if you need time to process. We could also consider a structured follow-up for everyone.”

The knot in my shoulders loosened a tad, as if someone had just whispered, “It’s okay, you can breathe.” It was unfamiliar, this sensation of being seen rather than just viewed.

“I would appreciate that,” I replied, my words free of the usual qualifiers.

Walking back to my desk, my notebook clutched against my chest like a medieval shield, I made a concious effort to lower it, letting my arm swing freely. The office buzzed around me - keyboards clacking, low murmurs, the occasional laughter spiking in the air. For once, I didn’t feel like a walking apology. It was odd but refreshing, like slipping into a nwe pair of shoes that don’t need breaking in.

At my desk, an email from the project manager pinged up, asking for timeline updates. My fingers danced automatically over the keyboard: “I’m sorry for the delay in responding, but—”

I stopped. Backspace enjoyed a brief workout.

“Based on my analysis,” I typed anew, “we need to extend the deadline by three days to ensure quality.”

Send.

No apologies, no shrinking, no verbose justifications.

Just a clear, professional assessment.

The reply was swift: “Thanks for the heads-up. Timeline adjusted.”

That was it. No pushback, no doubting my expertise or commitment. Just straightforward acceptance and action.

I leaned back, letting this minor triumph sink in. It wasn’t world-altering, but it was a quiet victory - a little personal rebellion against years of self-imposed diminishment. Like seeing a neglected plant finally stretching towards the sunlight.

A notification popped up - a meeting in fifteen minutes. The familiar flutter of anxiety rose in my chest, but it felt different this time. It wasn’t the old fear of occupying space. It was just… normal pre-meeting jitters.

Notebook and pen in hand, I headed off to the conference room. This time, I promised myself, I wouldn’t start with an apology.

This time, I’d start with my voice.