It didn’t feel like kindness. It felt like distance in disguise.
At first, I thought it was just manners. The way people would preface their requests with a soft “sorry to bother you” or “I know you’re swamped, but…” felt like a polite gesture. Like they were acknowledging my time. Like they cared.
But over time, something shifted. The apologies didn’t sound warm anymore. They sounded careful. Almost nervous. Like they weren’t just being respectful — they were trying not to step on something they couldn’t name.
I’d be sitting there, headphones in, not visibly stressed, not behind on anything urgent, and still — “Sorry, I hate to even ask.” Or, “If you’re not too busy, could I…?” Like asking me a basic question required a disclaimer now.
It took me a while to notice it wasn’t happening to everyone.
When Politeness Isn’t About Respect
I’d watch how they asked other people for things. No hesitation. No hedging. Just direct, easy questions. The way people communicate when they assume it’s safe to do so. When they don’t expect defensiveness or rejection or friction.
But with me, it was different. They’d stand in the doorway longer. Apologize for needing something they were fully entitled to ask. Reassure me it wouldn’t take long. It started to feel less like courtesy and more like careful handling.
Like I had developed an edge I wasn’t aware of. Or a reputation I hadn’t earned. Or maybe just a silence people had started interpreting however they wanted.
One coworker even whispered, “I know you’re super burnt out,” before asking a routine question. I hadn’t said that out loud to anyone.
The Gap Between How I Feel and What They See
I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t cold. I wasn’t short with anyone. But I also wasn’t enthusiastic anymore. I didn’t perform the same energy I used to. I didn’t fill the air with extra words or fake brightness. I just… answered.
And maybe that was enough to signal something. Maybe not over-explaining made me seem closed off. Maybe not jumping to help made me look annoyed. Maybe being quiet had turned into something people tiptoed around.
There were days when I’d overcompensate just to see if I could make it stop. I’d be extra warm, extra helpful, extra available. And for a few hours, the tone would shift. But it never lasted. The apologies always came back.
I started realizing people weren’t responding to who I am — they were responding to how I made them feel about themselves.
There’s a strange heaviness to being perceived as unapproachable when you’re not trying to be. It made me second-guess my face, my tone, my posture. It made me want to say, “You can just ask me,” but even that felt like admitting something was off.
So instead, I started anticipating the apology. I’d brace for it. I’d hear the preamble and think, here it comes again — another reminder that I’d somehow become someone people walk on eggshells around.
Sometimes, I wanted to ask, “Why are you sorry?” But I didn’t. I just said “No worries” and answered the question. Like I always did.
Eventually, it became a pattern I stopped trying to undo. I let the apologies happen. I answered things quickly, plainly. I didn’t try to soften anything. I didn’t try to perform accessibility anymore. And people adjusted — not to who I really was, but to the version of me they’d already decided was safest to handle from a distance.
I don’t think they meant anything by it. But I also don’t think they realized how often they were apologizing for my existence in their workday.
And the more it happened, the more I started to shrink into that version of myself. The one that people avoid bothering. The one that people talk about in lowered voices. The one they don’t think notices.
I noticed.
Sometimes, the way people speak to you reveals more about the room than it does about you.
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