The Growth That Came from Not Saying Sorry

This morning, in our usual rush and routine heading to school, my son was looking for something, as per usual. I calmly asked what he was doing, and he snapped at me. That’s not uncommon.

I stayed regulated and grounded to help him regulate. But sometimes, that calm turns into overfunctioning.

Codependency has a way of sneaking in the back door. As someone who was once deeply codependent, I still fall into old habits—being the one who holds it together, who stays calm for others. And if they don’t stay calm, I assume I must have done something wrong. Maybe I raised my voice slightly. Maybe my tone changed. If they react, it must be my fault.

This reinforces an old belief I’ve carried for as long as I can remember: I’m to blame.

My needs go on the back burner. I become the regulator, the rock. The one who has to hold it all together. I carry that role implicitly, and I have to unlearn it—over and over again.

So when my son snapped this morning, I looked at him and said, “I’m not okay with you talking to me that way.”

He replied, “Well, your tone—I didn’t like it.”

I told him, “There was nothing wrong with my tone. It’s not okay for you to raise your voice at me because you don’t like the way you perceive a tone shift.”

He wouldn’t take responsibility. That’s normal for him when he’s in that place. I bit my tongue, got in the car, and waited while he found what he needed.

When he got in the car, he said, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

And here’s where I did something new.

In the past, I would’ve said, “I’m sorry too,” or “You didn’t do anything wrong—it was my fault,” or “Don’t worry about it.” Anything to ease the moment. Anything to absorb his guilt.

But I didn’t do that this time.

I said, “Thank you for saying that.”

There was no guilt or shame hanging in the air. Just appreciation—and a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. He looked at me and said, “Thank you for saying that to me, Mom.”

He shifted. I did too. And while it felt like a small moment, I know it wasn’t.

The night before, I had done a short brainspotting session on myself (a therapeutic approach I use in my work as a trauma therapist that helps me when something needs to move emotionally).

I only worked for about fifteen minutes, but something long overdue finally shifted.

What surfaced were memories—times I chased love and tried to earn the right to feel good or be seen as good. I thought I had to work for it. I remembered people who projected their own shame onto me and how easily I absorbed it. Hook, line, and sinker. I believed what I already suspected deep down: that I was bad.

What I was grieving wasn’t the loss of those relationships. It was the loss of myself.

I had spent years abandoning my own inner child. Years forgetting who I was—soft, kind, perceptive. I had never turned to that part of me in my earlier adult years and said, “You are the sweetest, kindest, purest soul I know.” But that night, I did, as I have done repeatedly more recently these past seven years.

And when my son raised his voice the next morning, that part of me—the one I used to abandon—was still with me.

I didn’t collapse into guilt. I didn’t question myself. I didn’t apologize for something I didn’t do.

I had stayed grounded. He had raised his voice. That was the objective reality.

In the past, I would’ve found a way to own some piece of it because my baseline belief was always “It must be my fault.” And without meaning to, I passed that belief to my kids. I modeled self-blame. I absorbed responsibility for things that weren’t mine—and they learned to expect it.

So even when they did apologize, it came with heaviness. Guilt. Shame. Because they were mirroring my nervous system.

But this morning, I didn’t offer guilt. I offered truth and appreciation.

And that gave us something new.

That new response, that small moment, is what neuroplasticity looks like in real time. The brainspotting session the night before allowed a shift inside me. The next day, I had a new choice available. I acted differently, and that action created a different outcome. One that felt easier, lighter, truer.

That’s how new neural pathways are formed—not just by thinking about change but by doing something new and feeling the difference.

My “thank you” helped create a moment of mutual presence. No one had to be the villain. No one had to fix it. Just two people, regulating together.

Sometimes healing isn’t about a big breakthrough. Sometimes it’s just one honest, grounded moment—choosing not to apologize for something you didn’t do. Saying “thank you” instead of “I’m sorry.” Staying with yourself instead of abandoning the part that’s finally feeling safe.

Those tiny and seemingly insignificant moments change us. And over time, they change everything.