No Apology
This poem began with a poetry prompt shared by AccessAbility Arts featuring a seal resting peacefully by the shore.
The prompt explored self-acceptance, softness after struggle, and what it means to exist without apology.
My thoughts immediately drifted to two places:
sharing my poetry publicly for the first time and discovering that honesty connects people more deeply than perfection ever could,
and the long hours spent alone in a hospital waiting room last week while my wife Natalie underwent surgery — followed by the overwhelming relief of seeing her come back through those doors still fiery, feisty, and completely herself.
This poem became about both of those things:
learning to breathe again,
learning to take up space,
and learning that peace sometimes arrives quietly after the storm.
Image credit: AccessAbility Arts
No Apology
I spent years
trying to fold myself smaller.
Quieter opinions.
Softer truths.
Poems hidden in drawers
like they needed permission
to exist.
But lately—
I’ve started leaving pieces of myself
in the open.
On websites.
On Facebook posts.
In poems shared with strangers
who stop scrolling long enough
to say:
“Yeah… I felt that too.”
A Tesco worker has a bad day,
and somehow my words travel further
than I ever imagined they would
hidden away in silence.
“Manners: Out of Stock.”
And people listen.
Not because I shouted.
Not because I demanded attention.
But because honesty
has its own gravity.
And then came the hospital.
When Natalie disappeared
through the Day of Surgery doors
with her support worker,
the world narrowed
to waiting room silence,
cold coffee,
and thoughts sharp enough
to cut straight through me.
People think waiting rooms are calm.
They’re not.
They are storms
contained inside a single body.
I sat there alone,
trying not to crumble
in front of strangers,
counting minutes
like they meant something.
And then—
hours later—
I met her outside the Surgical Ward.
Not small.
Not broken.
Fiery.
Feisty.
Still unmistakably Natalie.
Still carrying that spark
that somehow survives everything.
And for a moment—
just one moment—
I felt myself return too.
The noise in my chest quietened.
My breathing steadied.
The storm finally loosened its grip.
Then instinct took over.
I became her husband again.
Her confidante.
Her anchor—
the same way she has always been mine.
And together
we moved forward through the night.
Maybe peace is not
the absence of chaos.
Maybe it is this:
speaking in your own voice
without shrinking first.
Loving loudly.
Resting beside the people
who remind you
who you are.
And finally understanding
that you do not need permission
to take up space
in this world.
