Apologizing

Bursts of orange and pink danced across the sky as the sun began to settle into the horizon for the evening. It was our final day of vacation, and we decided to venture down to the beach one last time to snap a few photos as all southern white families do.

My 16-month-old was in a particularly volatile mood after refusing to nap, but we were bathed and dressed and the sky was gorgeous and dadgumit we were going to get a happy family photo. 

I asked if any of my family members would take a few pictures of Tyler, Wren, and myself as we walked down the beach barefoot in our dress clothes. (I know, I know—it was a very original idea.) My 13-year-old sister, Anna, eagerly jumped at the opportunity.

“I’ll do it!” she said, lunging for the camera. Anna recently told me she wants to be a photographer when she grows up.

“Awesome,” I said, handing her the camera with one hand and trying to keep my kid from eating sand with the other. “You just press the button on top, and that’s all there is to it. It’s super easy.”

My little family of three wandered about 10 yards down the beach and turned to walk back. Anna was in position with the camera, beaming from ear to ear. We held hands and walked slowly as the golden beams of sunlight blanketed our shoulders and the tide brushed our bare feet. We laughed as we made animal noises to coax Wren to smile. My parents stood behind Anna acting like utter fools to make this stubborn toddler laugh, and it worked. In a moment of summertime magic, she giggled and smiled and in my mind I thought, “We’ve done it. We have achieved the perfect family photo.”

Anna handed me the camera when we were done. I couldn’t wait to see the pictures. I was already writing an Instagram caption in my head. Her face was filled with pride as she returned the camera to me. I clicked the playback button and began to scroll left to review the photos, but there was only one, and it was blurry and my eyes were closed. One picture after all of that work.

“There’s only one picture,” I said in disbelief.

“What?” Anna ran over to the camera. “How?” she exclaimed. “I thought I took like a hundred.”

“Well you didn’t,” I replied, not even attempting to hide my frustration. “There’s one, and it’s blurry, and the sun is almost gone and Wren will probably never smile again in her lifetime so let’s just forget it.”

“I’ll do it again,” Anna said softly, noticeably disappointed in herself. 

“No, don’t worry about it.” I passive-aggressively snapped back. Wren was fussy and Tyler was over taking pictures and the moment was gone. Anna's eyes filled with tears as she hurried away.

My mom talked us into letting her take a few pictures, and of course they turned out fine and I felt like a narcissistic maniac for snapping at my little sister. The whole walk back to the condo I replayed the last half hour in my head, and no matter which way I spun it, Anna had done nothing wrong.

Ugh.

I had to apologize. I HATE to apologize. Apologizing means you were wrong, and I am not good at being wrong.

After we returned to the condo, I found Anna snuggled under a blanket on the couch scrolling through Pinterest. I squeezed in beside her and stretched my arm around her shoulders. She wouldn’t look at me. 

“Anna,” I began. “I owe you an apology.”

“Okay,” she said, still not looking up from her phone.

“You didn’t do anything wrong down on the beach just now,” I said in a tone of defeat. “I did.” 

She looked up at me.

I’m in.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so upset about the pictures,” I continued. “I cared way too much about getting the perfect family photo, which is stupid because the truth is that babies are fussy and husbands don’t enjoy photo shoots and honestly I’m bloated and unhappy with how I look and none of that has anything to do with you. Those are my issues. You are amazing.”

“It’s okay,” she said, giving me a hug in what felt very much like a Full Housemoment. I waited for inspirational music to begin playing in the background.

“And Anna,” I said, “you are a great photographer. Please keep taking pictures forever.”

She smiled and we hugged, and I still felt like a jerk but much less so than before. 

Apologizing is so freaking hard. And humiliating. And vulnerable. But it is also brave and liberating and right. 

Historically, I am not great at apologizing. As a person who thinks she is right practically all of the time, admitting when I am wrong does not feel natural. It feels like walking to my mailbox in my underwear—awkward, exposed, and at the mercy of those around me. But I’ve decided that having healthy relationships and building up the people that I love is far more important to me than being right. So I am trying to become a good apologizer. Or at least a sincere one. It takes work, and I still mess up quite frequently, but I will keep trying because I love my people. And also because I don't want to be the person they talk to their therapist about.