I’m 66 and I’ve stopped apologizing for taking up space — not because I’ve become rude, but because I finally learned that making myself smaller never made anyone else bigger

I spent forty years making myself smaller so other people could feel bigger. Ducking my head in meetings when I knew the answer. Letting louder voices drown mine out. Starting every other sentence with “sorry” like it was punctuation.

Last week, I sat in my regular booth at the diner, spread my newspaper across the whole table, and didn’t fold it up when the place got busy. Small thing? Maybe. But for a guy who used to practically disappear into walls to avoid taking up too much room, it felt like a revolution.

Here’s what took me six decades to figure out: shrinking yourself doesn’t help anybody. It just leaves less of you in the world.

The apology habit started early

Growing up, I learned that good people don’t take up too much space. Don’t be too loud. Don’t have too many opinions. Don’t make waves.

My old man never said those words exactly. But he lived them. Worked his whole life at jobs where they told him when to show up, when to leave, when he could eat his sandwich.

Never complained. Never pushed back. Just made himself smaller and smaller until one day he had a heart attack at fifty-nine and that was that.

I inherited that mindset like a family heirloom nobody actually wants. Sorry for speaking up in meetings. Sorry for having an opinion. Sorry for existing in a way that might inconvenience someone else.

You know what’s crazy? I ran my own electrical business for thirty years. Had crews depending on me, customers trusting me with their homes. And I still apologized for taking up space in my own life.

Making yourself small doesn’t make anyone else bigger

Here’s what I thought would happen when I made myself smaller: other people would appreciate it. They’d see how considerate I was. How humble. How easy to work with.

You know what actually happened? Nothing.

Nobody ever said, “Wow, thanks for making yourself invisible so I could shine.” They just filled the space I left empty and kept going.

I remember sitting in a planning meeting with some contractors about ten years ago. I had the solution to their electrical problem. Knew it cold. But there was this younger guy, real confident, talking over everyone. So I stayed quiet. Figured he needed the win more than I did.

The project went sideways. Cost everyone money. And that confident guy? He blamed the electrician who didn’t speak up with better ideas.

That’s when it started to click. My silence wasn’t helping him. Wasn’t helping anyone. It was just robbing the room of information that could’ve saved everyone grief.

There’s a difference between taking up space and taking over

Let me be clear about something. I’m not talking about becoming one of those guys who dominates every conversation. You know the type. Can’t shut up, has to be the expert on everything, makes every story about them.

That’s not taking up space. That’s being a jackass.

Taking up space means showing up as yourself. Speaking when you have something to say. Sitting comfortably instead of folding yourself into corners. Existing without apology.

I learned this from watching my wife order at restaurants. For years, I’d watch her say, “Sorry, could I possibly get the dressing on the side?” Like she was asking for a kidney.

One day she just stopped. “I’d like the dressing on the side, please.” No sorry. No explanation. Just a simple request from someone who knew what she wanted.

The waiter didn’t care. The kitchen didn’t collapse. The world kept spinning.

The anger underneath all that shrinking

Here’s something nobody talks about: when you spend decades making yourself smaller, you get angry. Really angry.

Not the kind of anger that explodes. The kind that simmers. That leaks out in weird ways.

I had a temper that cost me friendships I’ll never get back. Not because I was standing up for myself in healthy ways, but because all that suppression had to go somewhere. So it came out sideways. Sharp comments. Cold shoulders. Explosions over nothing because I’d been swallowing the something for too long.

My younger son called me on it once. Said I was like a pressure cooker with a broken valve. Either nothing or everything, no in-between.

He was right. When you’re not taking up your rightful space, when you’re constantly apologizing for existing, that pressure builds. And it always finds a way out.

Learning to be comfortable with discomfort

The hardest part about stopping the apology tour? Other people’s reactions.

Some folks get uncomfortable when you stop shrinking. They’re used to you being the guy who steps aside, who doesn’t make waves. When you start taking up space, they don’t know what to do with you.

I lost some friendships over this. People who liked me better when I was smaller. When I was easier to ignore or talk over.

But here’s what I gained: real connections with people who actually want to hear what I have to say. Who appreciate when I show up as myself instead of some watered-down version.

My relationship with my sons changed completely. For years, I thought being a good father meant not burdening them with my opinions or experiences. Turns out they actually wanted to know their old man. The real one, not the edited version.

The practice of taking up space

This isn’t something you flip like a switch. It’s practice. Daily, sometimes uncomfortable practice.

It starts small. Sitting normally on the subway instead of making yourself narrow. Speaking at your regular volume instead of barely above a whisper. Saying what you want directly instead of hinting and hoping someone figures it out.

Last month, I was at the hardware store. Guy cut in front of me in line. Old me would’ve let it go, maybe grumbled about it later.

Instead, I said, “Excuse me, I was next.”

That’s it. No anger. No apology. Just a simple statement of fact.

The guy looked surprised but stepped back. The cashier nodded at me to come forward. Nobody died. The world didn’t end.

Bottom line

At sixty-six, I’ve finally figured out that making myself smaller never made anyone else bigger. It just meant there was less of me in the world. Less of my experience, my knowledge, my perspective.

I’m not rude about it. I don’t bulldoze people or demand attention. I just stopped apologizing for existing.

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself, here’s what I want you to know: your voice matters. Your presence matters. The space you take up is yours by right.

Stop shrinking. Stop apologizing. Show up as yourself and let other people figure out how to deal with it.

Trust me, the world’s got plenty of room for all of us.