I’m Sorry, Mom

A quiet confession from the tattoo chair

There’s a sign on the wall.

A glowing joke in pink neon.

“I’m Sorry, Mom.”

The kind of thing people take selfies with — playful, harmless, ironic.

A wink at rebellion.

I smiled at it, too.

Because I wasn’t sorry.

Not about the tattoo.

A small mute symbol, etched behind my ear.

Not loud. Not for attention.

Just there — like the silence it represents.

I wasn’t apologizing for the ink.

But sitting in that chair, I realized:

There was something I was sorry for.

And it had nothing to do with tattoos.

I thought of you, Mom.

And the years I stayed quiet — not because I was at peace,

but because I didn’t know how to speak about what I couldn’t hear.

I wondered if you ever carried it —

The question no one asks but mothers always do:

“Was it me?”

Did you blame yourself for my hearing loss?

Did I ever make you feel like it was yours to carry?

You never said it out loud.

But guilt has a way of living in silence.

I know that now.

This mute symbol wasn’t for rebellion.

It was for reclamation.

A way to mark what I once avoided.

To say:

“This is mine now. I live with it. I live well.”

But I still need you to know:

It was never your fault.

Not even a little.

And if I ever made you feel otherwise — I’m sorry.

This is why I started QuietlyBold.

To make space for people who hear differently — and live honestly.

To build something that replaces guilt with grace.

“Silence with design.
Absence with presence.”

If you’ve carried quiet shame, or unsaid things — this is for you, too.