The unspoken apology… This is for the ones still waiting. For the ones who never got the words they deserved. For the ones learning that silence is its own kind of betrayal.
You don’t have to carry the weight of someone else’s unspoken apology.
When people hurt us, it’s natural to want peace. To find our way to forgiveness. But it’s hard to get there when the person who caused the pain never even admits they caused it. No apology. No ownership. Just… avoidance.
It can leave you feeling untethered. How do you heal without a bridge?
Because that’s what an apology is. It’s not just the right thing to do—it’s the bridge. The crossing point between pain and reconciliation. It doesn’t even require guilt or agreement. It simply requires recognition.
Without it, there’s no crossing. No repair. Just two people standing on opposite shores, and one of them pretending the water doesn’t exist.
And that’s where it stings. When someone won’t apologize, they aren’t just avoiding responsibility—They’re declaring, in one form or another, that your hurt isn’t worth the effort.
It feels like rejection. Because it is a kind of rejection. Not of the event, but of you.
But here’s what I want you to know: It’s not a reflection of your worth. It’s a reflection of their character.
I’ve told my kids this for years. When they fight and resist saying sorry, I remind them: An apology doesn’t mean you did something wrong on purpose. It doesn’t even mean what you did was wrong at all. It means someone was hurt. And if you care that they’re hurt—even just a little—you make it right. You say the words.
That’s the same reason we instinctively say “I’m sorry” when we bump into someone at the grocery store. We didn’t mean to. It wasn’t malicious. But someone was affected, and we acknowledge it. That’s what decent people do. Not because they’re guilty, but because they’re good.
So what does it say when someone can’t even do that? When they can’t offer a simple act of repair to someone they once cared about?
It says they’re unequipped. It says they are still run by pride, or shame, or fear. It says they think being right is more important than being kind. And it says they likely struggle to offer that bridge to anyone, not just you.
And if you need one more way to see it clearly: Think of the person behind you in traffic. You’re driving the speed limit, but someone’s on your bumper. You’re boxed in. You can’t go any faster. But they honk anyway. Throw the finger. Roll down their window to scream at you like you’re the problem.
You know better. You know it’s not about you. They were already angry. Already impatient. Already spiraling.
And that’s what it’s like when someone refuses to apologize. Their silence isn’t about your value. It’s about their own dysfunction.
It’s easy to think, I guess I didn’t mean enough to them. And that might be partly true. But more often than not, nobody does. Because their inability to apologize isn’t selective. It’s systemic.
So no, you didn’t get the bridge. But let that be the answer. And let it free you.
If You Didn’t Know Them… Would You Stay?
Here’s the thing: If you didn’t know this person—if there were no memories, no shared past, no emotional thread pulling you toward them—and someone described them to you like this:
“They hurt people and walk away untouched. No apology. No regret. No effort to make it right.”
Now imagine that person standing in a group photo. At a party. With their heart fully visible—stitched to their sleeve for all to see. Would you want to be in that picture?
Would you want your name associated with someone who makes a habit of avoiding accountability? Someone who finds a way to disappear when repair is needed most?
Probably not.
Because that’s not who you are.
If you’re still reading this, chances are you’re the kind of person who says “I’m sorry” even when it’s hard. You’re the kind who feels it deep when you’ve hurt someone—intentional or not. You want to make it right. That’s your reflex. That’s your nature.
So no—you don’t understand people who don’t. And that’s a good thing. That means you’re not them.
You’ve been grieving the absence of a bridge, but maybe now you can be grateful you’re not the kind of person who destroys one.
That clarity? That’s your release.
That’s your self-worth giving your heart permission to resign.
You’re not the villain here. You’re not even the one who needs fixing.
You’re just the one who finally sees it for what it is. And you’re allowed to walk away— grateful that your name isn’t tied to theirs anymore.
“Greatest Winner of Friends” is how Dale Carnegie describes dogs in his world-renowned book, How to Win Friends and Influence People. His book has not only stood the test of time, but his writing has gained popularity since it was published in 1939. A light came on when I read his theory on dogs and their purpose in our lives.
It was an Arkansas spring morning in 2019. My husband Robert came home from work at six in the morning, and he found six puppies snoozing away in our crate, covered in poop. After nine years of marriage, being ambushed with a crate full of puppies was mundane business in our home.
In that little litter of teeth-grinding cuteness was a female puppy. I had to keep her because she looked like a German shepherd. I had always wanted a German shepherd, but my habit of adopting dogs in need never made me available to get a purebred. This was my chance as I saw it. The deal became sweeter when my dad and stepmom adopted her brother, Kai. I named her Oakleigh.
Oakley worn out from play trying to hide.
Oakleigh did not turn out to be a German Shepherd, but she was 100% mine. Oakleigh’s puppy phase resembled driving a car down the interstate and hitting a lot of potholes. She was independent by nature but loyal to her core. She ran the yard like a tight ship. Nothing was going to survive on her turf. Even the most skilled mole could not burrow deep enough in the ground to go undetected. Once she became aware, it was game over. I had a thriving garden because of her. It wasn’t uncommon to spot her with a prize clenched in her teeth.
However, she surprised us all when she caught a baby deer, and though I believe that would have been a high reward for her, loyalty to us was her priority, so it was no surprise when she immediately abandoned this endeavor once my husband commanded her to. We were the greatest joy to her.
Our family only grew after Oakleigh. We added additional children and dogs after she became our family. We opened as a foster home and though time with her alone was scarce, her love for us never lessened. Oakleigh lived an excellent life for several years. Sadly, ultimately, her adventurous spirit led her and her two best friends to jump our fence and go into the dark on a busy street. When her friends Elton and Bear came home, we knew something dreadful had occurred. They were regular gypsies, and no matter where their spirits led them, they always left together and always came home together. Those dogs were Oakleigh’s puppies — well, not really, but they both had been with her since she was four weeks old; they wouldn’t have left her unless they had to.
Elton was the first dog to return home when we woke up the following day. He was lying on a chair sitting on the porch. We wondered if he had forfeited the adventure with Bear and Oakley since he is significantly younger than them and he is also less social. Galloping the mountainous landscape into the yards of strangers splashing in their ponds doesn’t seem fitting for Elton, a Doberman-Husky mix. He prefers his human, my son Matthew. Matthew is Elton’s adventure. So, when Matthew alerted us to Elton’s return, we were not surprised. The news that followed was a surprise, though.
Our neighbor sent us a screenshot of a post about Bear that appeared to have been posted on Facebook the night before. The lady posted a picture of Bear and said he was on the side of the highway, running from one side to the other, weaving through traffic. She mentioned she tried to coax him in her car, but he would not accept the invitation. He tried to pull away from her and return across the highway, continuing to howl. She mentioned at one point, he spooked her with his vocals. She thought he may have been trying to alert her of danger nearby. It is interesting how well she read Bear’s cues because he is a lackadaisical dog without much character, so cries like the one she described would have alerted us, too. We knew at this point that something had definitely happened to Oakleigh.
We thought she may have passed away somehow. Perhaps by a wild animal, or Robert suggested a car. Where we live, there are electric tree lines and vast woods. Finding her outside the prominent places would be like finding a needle in a needle stack. 🙂 Robert and I drove up and down the highway to see if we could spot her body. This would be the worst-case scenario but the most straightforward, obvious way to find out what happened to her. Robert and I returned with no more information than we had when we began the hour before.
My dad, who owns Oakleigh’s brother and is a dog lover, offered to go with me in the Jeep for a more in-depth search. The first place we drove was by all of the three electric lines that Robert and I had seen the dogs run down in the past. We had the Jeep top down, soaking up the unseasonal sunny-and-75 forecast. We called Oakleigh’s name and waited to hear any kind of response. As we checked off every electrical line, I told my dad I would return with hiking boots if we did not find her. The only thing worse than her death would be her suffering out there, starving with a broken leg or something. I could not shake the anxiety of the unknown.
We finally explored our way down the mountain; still, Bear was found much further north than the roads from our house to the highway led. Bear was found on the highway that intersected with Morgan Road. All routes led us to the highway intersection with Linker Mountain Road. Dad and I decided we needed to go to where Bear was found and start there.
The lady was lovely enough to send us a map and circle precisely where she found Bear. This helped alleviate any fear that the woman who found Bear was using a landmark —such as Morgan Road to describe Bear’s approximate location. He was precisely that far north. Dad and I sat in the parking lot right by where Bear was found, and we pulled out our Google Maps. We shared theories.
Though our theories differed, we agreed on one thing: we did not believe the dogs came out on Linker Mountain, ran on the side of the highway for a mile, and then crossed to where Bear was found. We both agreed the dogs most likely crossed the highway when they reached it. This made the past hour of searching for Oakleigh a waste of time because that would mean she went further north on the west side of the highway (the side my house sits on), and we were searching too close to my home. My dad pulled his phone back out, and we decided to backtrack closer to Bear’s location and further from my house. We pulled out of the area the lady sent us and went south onto the highway. As we pulled onto the highway to make our left turn, I saw the wooded area across from Bear’s location had a partially cleared section with a red metal fence. I pointed it out to my dad and warned him that we might have to jump that fence to go find Oakleigh if we ended up no further to the truth by the end of this leg of our search. We wandered through back roads, and Dad would alert me to which roads were dead ends and when I needed to turn out. He served as a nice human GPS in a standard Jeep. We continued to call her name.
I told my dad I needed closure. He assured me that he believed God was going to give me closure. When we came up with nothing, he told me to return to the location I mentioned earlier with the fence. He reminded me that I would not be able to take the Jeep, but he would support me walking up to it. It was indeed a last-ditch effort. I went back onto the highway and traveled north until I saw the salvage yard and pulled in. My surroundings were easier to identify with the Jeep top and doors off than when Robert and I searched the area earlier that morning in his truck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an animal deceased on the side of the road. I was careful not to look closely. I turned to my dad and said really carefully and quietly, “Dad, I just saw an animal deceased right over there as we pulled in. You better go look.” Dad said, “Sure.” He walked over with the same brave stride I had seen him use many times growing up. He said, “Felecia, I think this animal has been here awhile.” I turned while staying seated in the Jeep. I looked, and the animal did look brown; Oakleigh was black, but the shape of the legs, as they stood straight up in the air, looked like hers. Though not wholly recognizable, the sight was familiar enough to convince me I knew what I saw. I said, “I think it is her.” Dad said he looked closer, possibly resisting the subconscious mental protection his brain provides, and he looked up at me and said, “Yeah. I can see it. Does she have a yellow collar?” It was indeed her. Dad removed her collar for me, and we went home. The accident was high impact, and she indeed died instantly. Her head was still in perfect shape, with her abdomen busted open. It was clear that as she was coming back home, the back of her body was hit, which aligned with the puddle of blood that lay approximately 12 inches from being off the road. The mission had ended. The unknowns were known, and the reason Bear was howling and crossing the highway and refusing to get into a car with a stranger became clear. His leader, best friend, and the copilot for many adventures had been killed. I don’t claim to understand animal emotions. I don’t believe they are much like humans; dogs are better than us in many ways. They aren’t scorekeepers, validation seekers, betrayers, or drama starters. They are happy to see you when you come around and loyal pets. But I felt like I identified with an animal’s emotional response for the first time. Even though it was dark and cold and going home would have been best for Bear, he wasn’t willing to leave his best friend, and I believe he was grieving in a way that I have not witnessed in the four years I have owned him. I made a laser-engraved memorial for Oakleigh’s collar. In the next post, I will explain how I made it.
It feels comforting to look at our dog cabinet and see her face with her collar around her neck. Though sadness lingered in my heart, the mercies were not lost. I got six years with Oakleigh, who was loyal to her core and never required much.
My dad and I
Oakleigh and the dogs ran off the day my dad flew here for his annual Thanksgiving visit. My dad is a dog lover, which made this moment special in a strange way. It gave me someone to share my grief with who understands it. I got closure. I was trying to prepare myself for no answers and repeatedly failing. I didn’t know what to do without knowing what happened to her. I got her collar, which inspired my first DIY blog post that I have been putting off doing for a year. It also reminds me of that time with my dad and our conversations while driving around with the top down. My dad’s health has been through a lot this last year. I am thankful we took the time to look for her together, and I know we wouldn’t have had that drive if she weren’t missing. I was able to reflect on owning Oakleigh. Her loyalty and low-maintenance personality highlighted the main idea in one of my favorite books, which solidified the image of the human I want to be.
Reflecting on my journey with Oakleigh, I realize that our bond was a testament to the unique connection between humans and dogs. Dale Carnegie’s insight into dogs as the “greatest winners of friends” resonates deeply within me; they embody loyalty, unconditional love, and pure joy. Oakleigh brought light into our lives, teaching us valuable lessons about companionship and devotion. Though her physical presence is no longer with us, her spirit remains alive in our memories and in the love she fostered within our family. As I create a lasting tribute to her through a memorial collar, I find solace in knowing that even in loss, there are mercies to cherish. The experience has encouraged me to embrace the ideals of kindness and loyalty that Oakleigh exemplified, inspiring me to strive toward becoming the person I aspire to be.
What a powerful lesson I learned about nature, trees, and life.
A couple of years ago, for Mother’s Day, Robert and the kids gifted me a lime tree. I have nurtured and cared for this tree outdoors during the summer and brought it inside during winter, ensuring it has the perfect environment for growth. If you are unfamiliar with lime trees, known for their fragrant blossoms and juicy fruit, thrive in warm, sunny conditions.
Recently, in my morning rush, I briefly placed the tree outside in freezing temperatures, hoping to water it without creating a mess indoors. However, while managing four kids and not my time, 🙂 I realized I wouldn’t have time to water it before we had to leave for school as I planned. The thought of bringing it back inside crossed my mind, but optimism fooled me into believing a short trip to drop the kids off would be fine.
My mission became clear upon returning home: I needed to water the tree and bring it inside. I saw my beloved tree wilting on the porch, so I sprang into action, watering it and immediately bringing it back indoors. I was hopeful, but as I stand here today, this thing doesn’t exactly look like it’s thriving anymore. I am uncertain if it will survive. However, not all is lost in my catastrophe. Not only did I learn that trees quickly deteriorate in less-than-ideal environments, but the situation reminded me how fast our environments can affect us.
My tree has endured periods of insufficient sunlight, water, and nutrients—somehow it has always survived and even thrived with a little bit of TLC. However, no TLC was going to be enough to save my tree this time. The cold environment, even for a short time, took its toll on my little lime queen.
But we already know that plants are sometimes sensitive to their enviroments, don’e we? I mean, how many plants have you killed in your lifetime? Some of mine died from over watering. I remember when I got my first plant from my sweet neighbor. It was a snake plant. I was going to be a changed woman from years past. There would no longer be a cycle of the plant looking dry, me promising myself I would water it, me forgetting, and weeks later, there would be a dead tree. I watered this snake plant, and you wouldn’t believe it, but apparently this was the first plant that I ever owned that can get over-watered “loved” and rot and die. Believe me when I tell you, this bothered me. I have a paid app for this now, I learn about a plant’s environment right when I buy the darn thing. However, like most instructions, I interpret them as flexible suggestions. Yep! My lime tree proved my brown thumb wrong again!
I should have known though, right? Our environments matter. I am reflecting on my life and the challenges I’ve faced over 37 years; I recognize many struggles stemmed from choosing to remain in toxic relationships. Even brief moments in unhealthy situations can have lasting effects. This is not only in romantic relationships; toxic friendships have their fair share of devastating outcomes that could have been avoided by fleeing sooner than later. While the signs of an unhealthy relationship can often be obvious, much like my wilting tree, there are nuances to when it is time to go, and you should forfeit all efforts.
If you don’t have a dying tree to remind you how important your environment is, I am here to share snippets of my life experiences and when I knew I had to go.
One-sided friendships: Throughout my life, I often held onto one-sided friendships, hoping for change, but those emotional attachments brought more pain than letting go ever would. My name sits next to a missed call on their phone for weeks, never returned. You know, I make plans; they break them. We have all been in those friendships which aren’t fun or healthy. I would think about what I could do to make myself more valuable to them. I always just showed up when they needed me without being asked, removed the word “no” from my vocabulary, and when they called me out of convenience, I would answer, even if it wasn’t a good time for me. In the end, I only found more investment, which deepened my attachment, and in stark contrast, they respected me less. These bonds are hard to leave, and they can devastate your self-esteem. If you see red flags that you are in a one-sided friendship, you might take a step back for emotional clarity and decide if this relationship is best for you. If you see the negativity it brings to your life, let the relationship go. There are always more fish in the sea!
Overly Dependent Relationships: I have also been in places where I was expected to shoulder others’ burdens. In one significant situation, a friendship with a professional turned toxic as she manipulated me for more than I was comfortable giving. When I tried to distance myself, the manipulation intensified in threats about removing me from her social media. When I wouldn’t engage, she would message me again with another sob story about how much she missed our friendship. I will be honest; that chic creeped me out. It was the first time I realized the importance of recognizing dependence early on and packing up before the crap show began. Highlighting that not all unhealthy relationship dynamics stem from lack of attachment. The ones who love you too much, like I did my snake plant, are just as much of a hindrance to our well-being. Side note: Please just don’t have personal relationships with people that have authority over your life. What a stupid decision on my part. I was like a mouse on one of those sticky pads trying to get out of that. Just don’t. Let me be the designated goose in the flock for you.
Family Relationships: Toxicity can manifest in family relationships, too. These suck, don’t they? You deal with a bunch of disrespect; alcohol on the holidays just isn’t tuning them out anymore. Boundaries get crossed, and you finally say something in hopes of resolving the issue, and discussions fall into deaf ears. When efforts become exhausted, it is essential to prioritize our emotional well-being. These relationships can profoundly affect everyone involved, including those you did not intend to impact, like your spouse or children. You know how it goes: When you think about those relationships, your spouse becomes the sounding board for your endless rants and often becomes the person at the tip of your defensive sword, and the children get less attention because your focus remains on this failing relationship that you discovered is failing, and there is nothing you can do about it; yet, you keep trying because that’s the “family” thing to do, right? You are bad for refusing to deal with bull from your family, right? This doormat response to your environment is like a silent poison in the air, infiltrating the well-being of everyone around you. While you can’t control others’ actions, you can choose to step away before emotional harm deepens. Leaving a toxic relationship is not easy, especially with family, but self-preservation is a worthy endeavor. Family should be the most supportive environment, and when it isn’t, trust me when I say it is absolutely okay to draw the line and say enough is enough. If a family member is disinterested in mutual respect, then the label becomes just that, a label, until they initiate some maturity. People who love you — family members should — will not be okay with hurting you, and do not stay in their dysfunction simply because of a title they have in your family tree. Standing up for yourself, even against family, can be a freeing moment.
These are just a few examples of the havoc relationships can reap on our environments. Often, like my tree, short periods in a harmful atmosphere can have detrimental effects both physically and emotionally. So my question is: When will you abandon the unchangeable and seek refuge for yourself?
Boys will inevitably try to steal your time in hopes of winning your heart.
Already, I see the maternal instinct in you— even with childhood still fresh on your ten-year-old breath.
That instinct, that intuition, is a gift. It will be a treasure to any boy learning how to become a man.
You already have this quiet way of reading people. The way you choose gifts, noticing what others value… You make souls feel seen.
And yes, you are beautiful. You make the honor roll. You fly across the gym floor with fierce grace.
But those things? They’re ornaments on a tree.
I still remember the first year we cut down our own Christmas tree. I didn’t want to smother it in glitter and mesh and plastic. Its natural shape, its scent—it was already perfect. It didn’t need decoration to be worth looking at.
You don’t either.
Boys are going to see that. Boys are going to like that.
Which means it’s time I tell you something important— Something that might help you tell the difference between the boys who are worth your time… and the ones who only want to borrow your shine.
The right ones won’t just compliment the ornaments. They’ll notice the tree. They’ll see how deeply your roots run. They’ll want to protect your growth—not prune your branches. They’ll sit in your presence like it’s shade in summer, not just a place to rest when it’s convenient.
The wrong ones will clap when you’re dazzling. The right ones will stay when you’re dim.
He won’t look like the man in the movies. But you’ll know he’s worth your time because his kindness will be steady, and his respect will never waver.
He won’t always choose you over his friends—not at first. But even when he’s not by your side, you’ll feel secure knowing his heart chooses you every time.
It will respect you. It will soften for you.
He’ll spend the last dollar in his pocket just to take you to the restaurant you’ve been dying to try. He might not even like that kind of food— because he didn’t show up for that. He showed up for you.
And you’ll feel it.
His eyes will light up at your smile. They’ll shine and soften all at once— like a candle in the dark. Not so bright that it exposes, but just enough to illuminate the space around you.
When you find that kind of light, you’ll know it’s real. And you’ll know you’re home.
You’re six years old. You beg your mom to let you go a little deeper. She’s close. You promise not to go too far. The sun is warm. The tide is soft. The water brushes your knees, and you feel brave. You love how it lifts you. Makes you lighter. You lift your feet—just to see what it feels like. It feels like flying.
You bounce with the waves, your laughter lost in the wind. You don’t notice how far you’ve drifted. Not yet.
The waves grow stronger, but you’ve figured out how to ride them. Bend your knees. Time the jump. You’re proud of how good you’re getting at this.
No one else knows how to survive this, but I do. You forget to look back.
When you do, the beach has shifted. Nothing looks familiar. Your towel? Your mom? Gone.
That’s a scary place to be.
Panic slides into your lungs. Do you go left? Right? You don’t know. You really don’t know. You just start swimming—fast, frantic, wrong. The water that made you weightless now fights your limbs. Every stroke feels smaller than it should.
What felt weightless a minute ago,
feels like a force stronger than gravity pulls you down.
That is discomfort.
When you finally reach the shore, your chest is tight. You’re safe. But not really. Because the panic stays.
You weren’t trying to run. You weren’t trying to lose your place. You just didn’t know how far the water could pull you. You didn’t know the tide had a mind of its own.
That’s a lesson no one talks about. Mostly because when you try to explain it, it doesn’t really make sense. How can you be watching? Jumping? Intending to stay in place— and still end up so far from base?
That’s what it feels like.
and before you know it— you’d drifted further than you meant to. And getting back… well, maybe you never really do.
You’re earning the crown. With every push of the pedal, you’re learning to balance—and push through.
The bike is patient. It moves at your pace, but it won’t balance for you. That’s where practice becomes mastery.
It’s okay. We’re all learning to balance. Our checkbooks. Our time. Our eating. The list goes on.
Don’t rush, sweet boy. The moment you master one thing, life hands you something new.
I used to hold the handlebars. Today, I only held the back of the seat. You stepped forward—independent, proud, gauging your success by the lightness of my grip.
You did it. You really rode.
We ended on a good note. A sweaty one, too. The humidity tricked us— 85 degrees in 67% humidity is no joke.
