I’ve written this a hundred times.
In my head.
On paper.
In drafts I deleted before they finished saving.
It always started the same way.
“I’m sorry.”
But the truth is,
those words alone have never felt like enough.
Not for what happened.
Not for what I became.
Not for the impact I left behind when I lost control of my own story
and started dragging others into the fallout.
This isn’t a headline.
It’s a letter.
One you may never read.
But one I need to write.
To Those I Hurt Personally
You didn’t ask to be part of this story.
You didn’t sign up to be a side character in someone else’s collapse.
Whether it was emotional chaos, miscommunication, selfishness, or neglect—
you felt the damage.
And I saw it.
I see it now more clearly than I ever did when I was still trying to pretend I was fine.
You deserved someone who could show up consistently.
Someone who could love without needing to be rescued.
Someone who could hold space without dominating it.
You got me instead.
Unfinished.
Unaware.
Loud when I should have listened.
Silent when I should have spoken.
Gone when I should have stayed.
I’m sorry for that.
For the confusion I caused.
For the broken pieces I left behind.
To Those Who Believed in Me and Felt Betrayed
You gave me your trust.
Your money.
Your time.
Your belief.
And I let you down.
Not with one big betrayal,
but with a thousand small moments of over-promising and under-delivering.
With ambition that outpaced integrity.
With ideas that weren’t ready, but that I pushed forward anyway.
I thought if I moved fast enough, no one would see how unstable it all was.
But you did.
And you felt the collapse up close.
I’m sorry.
Not just for what failed.
But for the expectation I created that things would be different.
More magical.
More grounded.
More real.
I wanted that too.
But want isn’t the same as readiness.
And I wasn’t ready.
To the People I’ll Never Get to Speak To Again
I know some doors are closed for good.
That’s fair.
Some damage doesn’t get repaired.
Some people need distance to stay safe.
To heal.
To breathe again.
I’m not sending this letter to ask for contact.
I’m writing it because even if forgiveness never comes,
truth should.
You mattered.
And you were never invisible to me,
even when I didn’t know how to treat you with the care you deserved.
Why This Is an Apology and Not a Plea
I’m not writing this to be let off the hook.
I’m not writing this to make anyone feel better about me.
I’m not writing this to start a new narrative.
I’m writing this because accountability lives in the things we say
even when no one’s watching.
This apology isn’t part of a comeback.
It’s part of my healing.
And maybe, in some way,
it’s part of yours too.
Final Thought
I may never get to say these words in person.
I may never get a reply.
That’s okay.
Some things don’t need closure.
They just need to be spoken.
This is mine.
I’m sorry.
Not because it sounds good.
But because it’s real.
And because I carry it
every single day.