Why You’re Still Not Over It (Even After the Apology)

Healing without an apology starts with understanding why the apology was never going to be enough. In this episode we go deep into why we keep waiting, what we are really looking for, and what it actually takes to find peace without the closure we were never given.

Whether you are waiting for an apology that never came, or holding one that arrived but changed nothing — this conversation is for you.

Topics covered:

• Why the apology couldn't return what was taken
• The difference between a genuine apology and compliance dressed as resolution
• What we are really waiting for underneath the words
• A daily cord-cutting energy practice to reclaim your peace

Links:

📖 Uprooting Shame and Guilt — https://books2read.com/u/mvoQKz

🎁 A Guided Return to Unconditional Self-Love bundle: https://naomicarr.me/start-here

🎙️ Subscribe and follow Dear Rising Soul for new episodes every week

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Welcome to Dear Soul Rising, a sanctuary for remembering, rising, and reconnecting with the deeper wisdom within you. This is a space for the deeper conversations, the ones many of us didn't grow up having. I'm your host, Naomi Carr. There are three words we have been waiting to hear. I am sorry. And we've told ourselves consciously or not that when these words finally come, something will unlock. The weight will lift, we'll finally be able to feel like ourselves again. But I want to ask you something. What exactly do you believe those three words will give back to you? Not the feeling, not the relief. I mean exactly what do you believe will be returned? Because I've sat with this long enough to know that it's never really about the words. It's about what was taken. And here's the thing I wish someone had said to me sooner. Even if the apology came, it wouldn't give that back. Not because apologies don't matter, but because what was taken was never theirs to return. Today we're gonna go somewhere's real with this, where you sit with what it costs to keep waiting and what it actually takes to stop. When my father left the physical world, I thought something would finally settle, and in some ways it did. But what I didn't see coming, what I was completely unprepared for, was how long I would continue to hand him my worth, even after he was gone. Even after the physical ability for any resolution had closed, I kept waiting. Not consciously, not in the way I could name at the time, but in the way you wait when waiting has become the shape of how you love someone. When the hope of being finally seen by them has been woven so deeply into who you are that you don't even notice it's still running. And here is the thing I had to face. It wasn't just the apology I was waiting for. It was something older than that. Something that had nothing to do with words. I wanted him to understand the weight of what had passed between us. I wanted him to look at it, really look at it, and not turn away. I wanted to matter enough for that kind of honesty. And when he died, I had to hold the truth that in the physical world that door had closed. But what made it harder, what I didn't expect, was that in his final years something in him had begun to shift slowly and quietly. The man who was a better grandfather than father, and that taste of it, that small tender proof that it was possible, made the loss of it something I didn't have words for. Because it is one thing to grieve what never was. It's another thing entirely to grieve what had just begun. And when he died suddenly, no warning, no goodbye, no final conversation where any of it could be said, I was left holding something that had no category, not just the grief of losing him, not just the grief of what was never resolved between us, but the grief of what had almost been. For the father he was, for the years I had spent oriented toward a moment that was never going to arrive the way I needed it to. That grief needed to be felt, processed and moved through. And it was only on the other side of that, in the quiet of my own kitchen, sometime later that I spoke to him. I told him I was sorry for the ways of pain had made it hard to love him freely. I told him I forgave him. I asked for his peace, not just mine, his. Two souls settling something the physical world never got to finish. That was the first time I truly understood what real release could feel like. And it is a very different thing from what I want to talk about next. Because I also have been on the other side of this, receiving the apology and still feeling like I was waiting. If this resonates with you, I've created something free for you, a guided return to unconditional self-love bundle. You can find the link in the show notes below. I've experienced this in other relationships throughout my life. The apology that arrives easily, too easily. The right words, the perfect timing, and yet something in you doesn't move because nothing changed. The pattern resumes three days later. And you're standing there holding an apology that was never really about you. It was about relieving their discomfort, getting things back to normal, returning to a version of that relationship where they could feel okay about themselves again. And here's where it gets complicated. Because we are taught that when someone apologizes, we accept it. We move on, we let go. And if we don't, we become the problem. The one who holds grudges, the one who can't forgive. And suddenly the pain that was done to you becomes less important than how you're responding to it. That is not healing. That is compliance dressed up as resolution. But here is what I want you to sit with, because this is the part that doesn't get said enough. Even the real apology, the one that came from a genuine place, the one where they actually saw it, named it, took responsibility. Even that one couldn't give you back the version of yourself that existed before it happened. The one who didn't know yet what it felt like to be treated that way. The one who hadn't yet learned to make themselves smaller in that relationship. The one who still trusted easily, loved openly, didn't brace before speaking. That is what the apology was supposed to return, and it couldn't. Not because the apology wasn't real, but because that's not how it works. That version of you, the one before the wound, doesn't come back through their words, only through yours. So let's name what is actually happening when we wait. Because it is not what we think it is. We tell ourselves we're waiting for closure, for acknowledgement, but underneath that is a question that is much harder to say out loud. Did I matter enough to be treated with care? And the reason the waiting is so hard to release is because as long as we're still waiting, the answer is still pending. There is still a chance that one day they will see it, feel the full weight of it, and hand us back the proof that we were worth more than how we were treated. That is survival. That is the mind protecting itself from a verdict it's not ready to receive. But here is the truth that changes everything. The verdict was never theirs to give. You handed it to them. Not because you were foolish, but because when the wound happened, it arrived at a place inside of you that was already asking that question, already not quite sure of the answer. And their behavior confirmed a fear that was already there. So the apology was never going to heal the wound. It was only going to quiet the fear temporarily, until the next time something stirred it back up again. The wound is older than them, and it needs something older than an apology to close. So what do we do with all of this? We pick up our bags and we leave the station. Because we have somewhere important to be. We have a life that is happening right now, one that has been waiting for us just as long as we have been waiting for that train. And the train may still come, or it may not. But we cannot keep standing on that platform, missing the life that is calling us forward. So we go. And in going we let ourselves feel the weight of what we carried, the hope we held, the way we kept checking the schedule, even when something in us already knew. We let that be real, all of it. And then when you're ready, you bring the apology yourself, to yourself, for the years spent waiting, for the ways you made yourself smaller in that silence, for the parts of you left on that platform while your life was happening somewhere else. That is not self-blame. That is the most loving thing you can offer yourself. The acknowledgement that you deserved better, and the decision to finally begin given it. I want to leave you with something I return to every single day. Not just when something hard has happened, not just after a difficult conversation, a triggering moment, or time spent around certain people. Every day, because your energy is worth tending to every day. I believe that every time we interact with someone, an invisible cord forms between us. And by the end of the day, there are cords hooked into you from every direction. People you spoke to, people you thought about, people you've been carrying for years. And that weight accumulates. It makes your energy murky, heavy, hard to find yourself inside of. So here is what I do. I close my eyes, I picture all of the cords, every one of them, hooked in, and I pick up my axe, and with one clean, deliberate motion I cut. You can bring your hand through the air as you do it. Let your body be part of the release. What remains is yours, clean, clear and only you. Do this daily, do this as a ritual, not just a remedy. Your energy is the most sacred thing you carry. And when you do this enough, when tending to yourself becomes as natural as breathing, it frees you to carry only what was meant for you. And before we move into reflection, I want to offer you the soul musing. We attach to the need for an apology as if it will free us from what hurt us. But the waiting keeps us tethered to the moment itself. And when we realize our permission to move forward was never theirs to give, we stop waiting. And the power of three simple words falls away by Naomi Car. And I will leave you with these questions for reflection. What has the waiting actually cost you? The relationships you kept at arm's length? The chances you didn't take, the version of yourself that was quietly disappearing while you stood at that train station? What did you put down, push aside, or close yourself off to while you were waiting for something that may never come? What would it mean to stop waiting? Not as an act of giving up, but as an act of self-love and self honoring. Because I truly believe that when we begin healing ourselves, we create more compassion, more understanding, and ultimately a better world for everyone. With so much love, I'll see you in the next episode, dear soul.