9 things over-apologizers do that scream "I had critical parents"

The meeting hadn't even started when James apologized for the fourth time. Sorry for arriving three minutes early ("I know you're probably still setting up"). Sorry for choosing a chair ("Is this one okay?"). Sorry for his PowerPoint font choice. Sorry for clearing his throat. By the time he actually presented his genuinely excellent quarterly results, he'd pre-undermined every achievement with a disclaimer about what could have been better.

watching them was like recognizing a language I'd been fluent in for years without realizing it had a name. That constant anticipation of criticism. The preemptive strikes against judgment that might never come. The exhausting mental math of trying to be so perfectly inoffensive that no one could possibly find fault—which, of course, someone always did anyway.

Over-apologizers perform an elaborate ritual learned in childhoods where love came with conditions written in constantly changing invisible ink. Where "good enough" was a moving target that relocated every time you got close. These behaviors emerge from growing up in homes where criticism was the primary language of care.

1. They apologize for their emotions before feeling them

Watch carefully when an over-apologizer receives good news. Before the smile fully forms, there's that micro-expression of concern. They'll temper their excitement immediately: "I got the promotion—I know it's not a big deal, and I'm sure everyone's tired of hearing about work stuff, but..." They've learned that joy makes you a target. Sadness is selfish. Anger is dangerous. Every emotion needs a disclaimer, a minimization, an apology for taking up space in the world.

The workplace version is particularly telling. They'll preface opinions with "This might be completely wrong, but..." and end them with "...but what do I know?" They apologize for crying at their desk after receiving devastating news. They apologize for not crying when others expect them to. They've internalized that their emotional responses are inherently incorrect, always too much or too little, never quite right.

2. They thank people for basic human decency

A colleague returns their pen: "Thank you so much, I'm so sorry you had to bring that back." Someone holds a door: "Thank you, sorry for making you wait." They treat every small kindness like an unexpected gift, every basic courtesy like a favor they'll need to repay.

This goes beyond politeness into something more revealing. They're genuinely surprised when people aren't irritated by their existence. That colleague who thanks you profusely for "being so patient" when you waited ten seconds for them to finish a sentence? They grew up in a house where interruption was constant and patience was currency too expensive to spend on them.

3. They physically shrink in group settings

Notice how they sit in meetings—pulled in, contained, taking up as little space as possible. They choose seats near exits. They raise their hands halfway, tentatively, ready to retract at the slightest indication they're not wanted. When walking through crowds, they're the ones pressed against walls, apologizing to people who bump into them.

The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. These are people who learned early that being noticed meant being criticized, that attention was the preview to pain. They move through the world like guests who've overstayed their welcome, even in spaces they've occupied for years.

4. They over-explain normal behaviors

Ask them why they chose that sandwich for lunch and prepare for a dissertation. They'll explain the logic, the consideration of others' potential opinions, the three reasons they almost chose something else. Simple preferences become defended positions. Every choice requires justification.

The exhaustive explanation serves a purpose: heading off criticism at every possible angle. If they can just explain thoroughly enough, maybe you'll understand they had good reasons, that they thought it through, that they weren't being careless or selfish or wrong. Still defending themselves to an invisible jury that declared them guilty before the trial began.

5. They catastrophize minor mistakes

Sent an email with a typo? They're convinced it's career-ending. Forgot to reply to a text immediately? They're certain the friendship is over. The response to small errors is so disproportionate it would be comical if it weren't so clearly painful.

The response to small errors is so disproportionate it would be comical if it weren't so clearly painful. Forgetting to close a cabinet door once meant an hour-long lecture about carelessness. Every error was evidence of some fundamental deficiency. They're responding to the pattern where mistakes meant withdrawal of love.

6. They assume they're bothering everyone

"I don't want to bother you, but..." starts half their conversations. They'll stand outside your office for five minutes, building courage to knock. They send emails apologizing for sending emails. They assume their presence is an intrusion that others are too polite to mention.

Watch them at social gatherings, constantly scanning faces for signs of annoyance. They cut stories short, certain they've talked too long. Leave conversations abruptly, worried they've overstayed. They've internalized that they're a burden other people bear, perpetually grateful for anyone willing to carry that weight, even briefly.

7. They deflect compliments like physical attacks

Tell them they did good work and watch the gymnastics begin. They'll credit the team, the timing, the luck, everyone and everything except themselves. Compliments aren't just uncomfortable—they're actively threatening. They disrupt the careful equilibrium of staying beneath notice.

The deflection often includes detailed explanations of their failures: "The presentation went well, but I completely messed up slide seven, and I should have included more data on slide twelve, and really, Sarah did most of the research..." They can't let the compliment stand because accepting it feels like a lie. Worse, it feels like a setup—agree you did well, and someone will immediately point out why you're wrong.

8. They apologize for things beyond their control

Traffic made them five minutes late? "I'm so sorry, I should have left earlier." Someone else spills coffee near them? "Sorry, I must have been in your way." They apologize for the weather, for technical difficulties in virtual meetings, for existing in spaces where inconvenience might theoretically occur.

If they take blame first, maybe the real criticism won't come. If they apologize preemptively, maybe they can prevent the familiar spiral of accusation. They've learned that someone needs to be at fault, and volunteering for that role gives them a tiny illusion of control.

9. They end every request with an escape hatch

"Could you help me with this when you have a chance? But only if it's not too much trouble. Actually, you know what, I can figure it out myself. Sorry for asking." Every request comes with built-in permission to refuse, multiple off-ramps, and pre-emptive withdrawal.

They've learned that needs are impositions and requests are risks. Better to give people every opportunity to say no, to minimize the ask until it barely exists, to be ready to rescind it entirely at the first sign of hesitation. They're so practiced at not needing things that actually asking feels like speaking a foreign language, awkward and uncertain and probably wrong.

Final words

The thing about growing up with critical parents is that you never quite finish growing up. Part of you stays frozen at whatever age you were when you learned that love was conditional and criticism was care. You carry that kid with you into boardrooms and bedrooms, into friendships and partnerships, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, always apologizing for the space you take up in the world.

James finished his presentation that day to genuine applause. He looked surprised, then suspicious, then reflexively apologetic. "Thank you, but it really wasn't—"

"It really was," I found myself saying quietly. "It was excellent."

He stopped mid-deflection, looking almost startled. For a moment, I saw him wrestle with whether to argue, to explain why I was wrong, to apologize for making me feel like I had to say that. Instead, he managed a small nod and something that wasn't quite "thank you" but wasn't quite another apology either. It was a start.

The lingering effects of childhoods spent walking on eggshells that were already broken. Survival mechanisms that outlived the danger they were meant to protect against. Most of all, they're incredibly hard to change because they feel like safety, even when they're keeping you small.

The real tragedy isn't that over-apologizers say sorry too much. It's that they're still apologizing to ghosts who aren't listening anymore, still trying to be good enough for people who were never going to be satisfied anyway.