1 I was sorry to hear about his accident: sad, unhappy, sorrowful, distressed, upset, downcast, downhearted, disheartened, despondent; heartbroken, inconsolable, grief-stricken. ANTONYMS glad.
2 he felt sorry for her: full of pity, sympathetic, compassionate, moved, consoling, empathetic, concerned. ANTONYMS unsympathetic.
3 I’m sorry if I was brusque: regretful, remorseful, contrite, repentant, rueful, penitent, apologetic, abject, guilty, ashamed, sheepish, shamefaced. ANTONYMS unrepentant.
4 he looks a sorry sight: pitiful, pitiable, heart-rending, distressing; unfortunate, unhappy, wretched, unlucky, shameful, regrettable, awful.
“Hey, that’s my foot!” “Sorry!”: apologies, excuse me, pardon me, forgive me, my mistake; informal my bad.
“I’m sorry.” When said genuinely, this phrase can reconcile friends, family members, or lovers. When said genuinely, this phrase can heal wounds, create forgiveness, resurrect burnt bridges, express sympathy or empathy. When said genuinely, this phrase can mean, “I feel for you” or “I wish I hadn’t done that” or “I’ll never do that again.”
Though I’ve received quite a bit of support and encouragement since my announcement that my son was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder, I’ve also encountered both ignorant and patronizing responses, all of which I wish I could un-hear, un-read, un-see.
One of these sentiments is: “I’m sorry.”
I know people mean well. I know the intent to show care and compassion. But I’m sorry means that you wish my life was different than it is now. I’m sorry means that you regret my situation and wouldn’t want it for yourself. I’m sorry means you are “heartbroken” for me or “full of pity” for me. And you know what? I’m not sorry.
I’m not sorry that my son is walking, jumping, singing, playing, throwing, and kissing me goodnight.
I’m not sorry he’s breathing deeply and sleeping sweetly, peacefully through the night in the most angelic positions under a sheet with no pants on–because three years old means always wanting to be naked apparently.
I’m not sorry that I see his father when I look in his brown eyes or that when he leans my face against mine to look in the mirror, our chins and skin tones are shockingly identical.
I’m not sorry that he spins around, that he makes Tarzan noises, that he likes to pick up every leaf and every acorn when we walk, that he stacks blocks and knocks them down, stacks blocks and knocks them down, stacks blocks and knocks them down.
I’m not sorry that he has a warm home, a dog to play with, food on the table. I’m not sorry that eats and digests everything with no problem or that he uses the bathroom completely independently.
I’m not sorry that he uses crayons and markers and glue or that he plays with trains and musical instruments at school.
I’m not sorry that my husband and I can take him to the beach and watch the wonder and excitement on his little face as the wind blows through his hair, as he digs his toes in the sand, as he walks into the water.
I’m not sorry that he hugs his Mickey Mouse or his Rudolph or that he asks me for a specific movie we’ve already watched over and over again, and then climbs up on the couch next to me–or even better, in my lap–to watch it.
I’m not sorry that he has advocates, support, living grandparents who are involved in his daily life, cousins, aunts, uncles.
I’m not sorry that having autism means he has to try harder to achieve goals. Because the trying harder will make the success that much sweeter.
I get that you’re sorry. I get that you mean well.
But I’m not sorry. So, honestly, you don’t need to be either.