A seven-day experiment, the awkward moments to expect, and the sentence that replaces "sorry"
Scroll through your sent folder and add up the number of apologies you typed. Skip the genuine ones and focus on the reflex ones: "Sorry for the wait." "Apologies for the interruption." "Sorry, quick question." For many women in leadership, particularly across Central Indiana's offices and plants, the number is shocking, and nearly none of those apologies were for anything that deserved forgiveness.
Here's the outline. For seven days, beginning Monday, "sorry" is saved for real harm: a missed deadline that cost someone, or a mistake that truly mattered. Every other instance gets swapped out. Below is what usually unfolds, day by day, along with the phrasing that makes it manageable.
During the first two days in Indianapolis, you begin to pick up on the habit.
How often you do it is what catches you off guard first. The word shows up in your email openings, when you walk into meetings, and right before you ask something that was already settled. Roughly half of them you will notice as they happen. That's a solid start.
Try these instead: "Thanks for bearing with us" in place of "Sorry for the delay." "I'd like to add one point" in place of "Sorry, can I just." "Here's where things stand" in place of "Sorry it took so long."
Across days 3 and 4, the change feels awkward to you.
With the cushioning gone, your lines land harder than you're accustomed to hearing your own voice. A request reads as a request, nothing more. A correction reads as a correction, stated plainly. Plenty of people quit at this stage, because the bluntness can feel like rudeness even when it isn't. It isn't. It's simply what a sentence sounds like without an apology up front, and your coworkers hear that from their peers every day.
If you want a softener, pick a genuine one: "I appreciate how quickly you turned this around" costs nothing and apologizes for nothing. Jot down the three phrases you use most, along with a replacement for each, and keep the note on your desk. It sounds trivial, and it works, because the reflex moves faster than your intentions do.
By day 5, the people around you react in a different way.
Toward the end of the week, the way requests come back shifts noticeably. Replies come faster. Fewer people walk you through things you already grasped. The shift is quiet, and that quietness is exactly why it matters: an opening apology asks the reader for a favor. An opening built on substance asks the reader to take action instead. You might also discover which of your contacts liked the softer version better. That's useful information too.
The one principle that keeps you approachable
Steer clear of coming across as aloof. The experiment isn't about cutting warmth; it's about cutting the implication that you owe people something for taking up their time. "Sorry" was doing two jobs. Keep the kindness. Retire the apology.
Where an apology still fits
Save it for moments when your error cost someone else something real. Say it once, say it completely, and say what you'll change. A rarely offered apology is one people take seriously.
Tell us how it went
Run the week, then write to us: the moment that was hardest, the sentence you used in its place, and what had shifted by Friday. We'll publish the strongest accounts, with your name or without it, as the first entries in a new series of reader stories about what really happens at work across Indianapolis and beyond.
Open your sent folder first, because that is where the evidence will be. Sorry about that.