Stop Apologizing For Taking Up Space

Stop Apologizing For Taking Up Space

The next time someone bumps into you, don't say sorry.


"Oh, sorry! Let me get out of your way!"

"Excuse me, so sorry!"

If any variation of these phrases drop from your mouth without a second thought, it's time to stop apologizing. If you you can't make it through a single interaction with a stranger without saying them, it's time to stop apologizing.

If you can't move through a crowd, grab something off a shelf, or stop yourself from saying, "Sorry," when someone else bumps into you, it's time to stop apologizing.

These incessant apologies are more than simply being polite.

Whenever you get that knee-jerk reaction to say sorry: stop. Ask yourself, "Why?" What do you have to be sorry for?

You're apologizing for taking up space. You're saying sorry for being present in time and space. You're apologizing for something that you have no control over and it's time that you took a moment and stopped.

Take a moment and accept that you don't have to apologize for existing.

The next time that someone bumps into you, reign in that instinct to say sorry and ask yourself what Beyonce would do, or what Leslie Knope would do, or what Nicki Minaj would do. It sure as hell wouldn't involve apologizing. It would more likely involve a lot of side-eye and sassy comebacks.

Sassy comebacks are 100 percent approved by all of the leading ladies of our world, for making people respect your personal space.

You don't have to take the route of, "Move b****, get out the way!" But that level of enthusiasm is definitely appreciated.

The next time someone bumps into you, jut out your hip, throw your shoulders back and stare them down like they are the last cockroach on earth that is about to have the life squashed out of it.

You can have a quiet nervous breakdown about your newfound level of sass after the now-disgruntled stranger storms around the corner.

You need to have the same attitude that says, "I am existing in this space and I refuse to move and/or be apologetic about it." Have that attitude every time that someone gets up in your grill, every time someone knocks your books from your hands, every time you hit a pedestrian for walking slowly across the crosswalk, do not apologize! Wait...okay that last one might be going a bit too far, but you get the picture.

You deserve the space you are existing in; don't feel the need to apologize for it.

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Recruiters, Why Don't You Just Meet Me In The Middle?

I'm Losing My Mind, Just A Little.

Playing the "The Middle" by Zedd for the actual 29th time, windows down, spirits high, driving down I-575 to the ol' KS of U: the life of a graduating senior ain't half bad. When you're chugging full speed ahead on your collegiate victory lap, there isn't much to complain about. Right?

Yeah, RIGHT. Apparently juggling 18 credits, a part-time job, and a diligent job hunt isn't considered an extreme sport. And trust me, nobody wants to hear you complain along the way. Not your older co-workers, because they swear up and down that "The college years? Oh, they're the best years." Even turning to your parents is a bust, cause, well.. Mom's tired of putting you up and doing your damn laundry.

But by the 30th replay of my new favorite jam, I had been lulled into circling The Blake round-da-bout 3.5 times. At that very moment I was hypnotized into believing that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Marren Morris had written an ode to all the anxiety-ridden job-seeking seniors across America, in the form of a power-pod-ballad.

It goes a little something like this...

In an awkward moment mid-interview, Maren begins hysterically crying from the pressure of landing her dream job. The interviewer politely asks her to step into the hall...

Take a seat
Right over there, sat on the stairs
Stay or leave
The cabinets are bare, and I'm unaware
Of just how we got into this mess, got so aggressive
I know we meant all good intentions

Maren is spiraling and in total denial about wrecking her best chance at a well-paying entry-level job...

So pull me closer
Why don't you pull me close?
Why don't you come on over?
I can't just let you go

Upon arriving back home, Maren plans to work through it like an adult, with wine. Instead, in a fit of rage she has a full blown melt down in her kitchen...

Ohh, take a step
Back for a minute, into the kitchen
Floors are wet
And taps are still running, dishes are broken
How did we get into this mess? Got so aggressive
I know we meant all good intentions

As she tearfully lurks through LinkedIn, her interviewer's face pops up as a suggested connection...

Looking at you, I can't lie
Just pouring out admission
Regardless of my objection
And it's not about my pride
I need you on my skin
Just come over, pull me in, just

Recruiters, we're all flailing our arms and tanking our GPAs, all in hopes of showing you we mean business...

So why don't you just meet me in the middle, middle
In the middle, middle

Genius, Maren. Simply genius.

Cover Image Credit: YouTube

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The Trouble With A Writer's Brain, A Humorous Account

Words, Words, Words

I’m supposed to be writing something right now. Admittedly, I was supposed to be writing something at least four days ago.

But of course that something never turned into the something I needed to write. Why can’t I just write what I need to write and get it over with? Honestly. Not cool, muse.

Well, I say “muse.” Really I should just be blaming myself, ‘cause frankly, I don’t even know what a muse is supposed to be. A person? Yourself? Your cat? The mysterious and terrifying depths of the ocean? A houseplant?

Should I write

poetry, not


Maybe I should try something like. Really out there. Like—okay, I don’t even know what the fuck that would mean.

should i try n be edgy n forget grammar like e e cummings

Nope, I’m pretty sure my school-trained self just tried to claw her—their? His?—eyes out. Ugh, pronouns are weird. And annoying. But sometimes they’re not?

Maybe I could write something like that? A character who has Confusion about themselves? No, no, I have way too much shit to do for something that long right now. These are supposed to be short and fun. Short and fun, short and fun. Short. Fun.

I am tall and funny, does that count?

What would happen if I just wrote “something happens to this person I don’t know and we all have a laugh, the end”?

Probably get my account suspended. But come on, it’s not like writers aren’t thinkin’ it. (Stephen King doesn’t count, okay, he can literally type out six chapters in like a month without pause. I saw it on an interview once. Lucky bastard.)

I know it’s gonna be feel-good. That’s something it has to be. I’m already suffocating with work. I don’t need more depressing stuff. That’s for another day, and when that day comes, I’ll say the same thing. “For another day.”

Common problem, I like to think.

Ugh, what’s the word count again? I feel like those things are one of the worst features we have. It’s like checking the clock during class—you think you’ve done a lot, then you look over and realize you’ve only typed like, 50 words.

Well, I’ve got a decent number so far.

Maybe I can keep going.

Yeah. Let’s keep going.

Cover Image Credit: Unsplash

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