On saying the wrong thing and saying sorry

Last month, someone leading my current course of study touched lightly on a complex concept that can help us choose the words we use.

Intentionality is about the relationship between the things we think or say and things as they are or can be.

They went on to tell us that we should be speaking so intentionally that we never say the wrong thing—and never have to say we’re sorry…

Is that a reasonable goal—or worthy?

I don’t believe it is.

I believe that holding space for sorry is essential even when we’re being intentional.

Saying sorry is how you and I hold ourselves accountable. How those of us working towards equity, diversity and inclusion (EDI) can step bravely into the same discomfort we demand of others.

I believe that saying I’m sorry is EDI best practice in action.

‘I’m scared of saying the wrong thing’

Wherever words can do EDI work, one of the biggest barriers to folk doing words differently is a fear of saying the wrong thing.

When we first learn that words can do harm, we might freeze. We don’t want to hurt someone, so we don’t speak at all.

We let that fear take the wheel and it steers us away from the brave conversations that lie at the heart of EDI work.

Some of us might even centre our fear so completely that we frame hurting someone as simply ‘offending’ them and we decide we’ll speak as we want regardless of the consequences…

If you and I instead choose to use words we hope will have inclusive effect, we’re making a bold choice to do better—and we have to do so knowing we’ll sometimes slip up.

Why we all say the wrong thing sometimes

Language isn’t static. Language is ever changing, often in ways and at speeds that are challenging if our aim is always to use words inclusively—intentionally.

Keeping pace with the latest developments in relevant vocabularies—and with the negative effects being exposed as we examine our workplace words—is itself a full-time commitment.

It’s why I offer specialist services that supplement those of other EDI professionals whose practice is far broader. Why I support those whose expertise lies entirely elsewhere. And add value when inclusive language is only one strategic goal among many.

This is my niche.

Yet to imagine my every word will land perfectly is to ignore that I’m human.

As a trauma-informed practitioner, I often think of my work at the junction of words and EDI as a kind of exercise in risk assessment. I draw attention to those words that might land lightly with one person but trigger an old wound in another, and I advise risk avoidance.

Sometimes, that risk is obvious: the many idioms associated with enslavement; casual slurs that stigmatise mental ill health; the patriarchal pretence that the masculine (he, him, his) stands in adequately for us all.

And there are times too when managing one risk might introduce another: the older gay man who re-experiences verbal violence when he hears his younger peers celebrate their queerness.

Critical to this exercise is the fact that our audiences are not abstract; they’re made up of individuals, each with their own intersectional lived experience.

So to imagine my every word will land perfectly is to ignore that this work is human-centred.

How intentionality can help us choose our words more carefully

If you and I try to speak with intentionality, we won’t choose only those words that best reflect our meaning—words that will clearly and accurately capture our message. We’ll also think carefully about the likely effect of those words.

• Who are we talking to?
• How do we want our words to land with them?
• What do we want our audience—of one or of many—to feel when they hear what we have to say?

Intentionality is a good framework for the listening and learning that lies at the heart of inclusive language. It’s a lens through which we can see what we want our words to bring into being.

Put simply, using intentionality to choose our words more carefully means focusing not on ourselves but on others.

It means trying to use our words mindfully to build relationships.

To build trust.

When saying the wrong thing can build trust

Trust isn’t always fractured when we make mistakes. In customer relationship management, a mistake handled well can actively build trust.

What’s more, there’s some evidence suggesting that customers who’ve had such experiences might become more loyal to a company than they would have been had their relationship been plain sailing.

There’s a lot we could unpack in this, but the point of this example is that mistakes don’t always mean the end of a relationship. The end of trust.

So when you or I say the wrong thing, we have an opportunity not only to remedy the mistake we’ve made but also to demonstrate our commitment to the hard work of EDI.

Whether someone speaks up to share how we’ve hurt them or we recognise ourselves where things went awry, we can lean into discomfort, listen and learn.

We can show, not tell, them that we’re committed to doing better.

When might we say the wrong thing and why?

Let’s take this out of the abstract.

Let’s look at gender identity—a hot topic so often raised in EDI spaces…

In that same classroom, another facilitator asked a question—and the answer stopped me in my tracks.

‘How many gender identities are there?’

Unlimited?

‘No. Seventy-two. Take a look online.’

I did.

And I found there a source that helpfully glosses some of the rarer English-language vocabulary but omits entirely the plain ends of the gender spectrum, woman and man, as well as storied terms such as two-spirit.*

I found another source citing instead 68…

Both numbers are nonsense.

Because the rate at which the English-language lexicon alone is changing reflects ever more nuanced conceptions of gender identity, and new terms are sure to be coined by individuals who don’t find their perfect match among those listed at these two single points in time.

That you and I will sometimes say the wrong thing—use an outdated term, for example—isn’t risk but reality.

Especially when we add to these shifting sands all the words we might use to talk about sexual orientation. Or race. Disability. Mental health. Religion and belief. Age. Body type. Neurodivergence. Regional and socio-economic background—and more besides.

And especially when we reflect on our own unconscious biases, looking clearly and candidly at what shows up.

• ‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen’, you might cheerfully greet your next class—only for a participant to remind you gently that some people in the room might identify outside that binary…
• Arriving late for my first meeting with a new cohort, I try to amplify Frankie’s point: ‘I think she was saying that…’ I look again at Frankie’s on-screen name—and their pronouns—and realise what I’ve done…

So entrenched are these old habits that even one of the facilitators fell afoul of the first.

A competent EDI professional and experienced educator, sharing powerful insights and promoting intentionality, proved themselves human…

As will we all.

How can I say I’m sorry when I’ve said the wrong thing?

Inevitable it may be, then, but saying sorry isn’t always easy.

Too often, when we say sorry, we centre ourselves.

Too often, we invest in an apology expecting a return: forgiveness. Reassurance. Validation.

And what that means in practice is that not only have we hurt someone but now we’re asking emotional labour of them—demanding they make us feel better about what we’ve done…

Sorry is a powerful word and it’s a word we can learn to do differently.

Here’s what saying sorry can look like if we set aside our shame.

Here’s how you and I can do sorry differently...

Say the words, simply and sincerely: ‘I’m sorry.’

Don’t fudge it. No ‘I apologise if…’ No ‘I’m sorry you feel…’

Say the words with the same intention you‘d invest had you stepped on their toe.

Don’t overegg it. No ‘I’m devastated…’ No ‘You must hate me…’

Commit to doing better next time and, if appropriate, check in with them on what that might look like.

Don’t expect them to sugar coat it. Hear ‘It’s not okay…’ Sit with ‘Do better…’

Learn from your mistake.

* Coined in 1990, ‘two spirit’ is itself an English-language term that ineptly flattens the myriad conceptions of—and words for—gender identity among diverse First Nations to fit Western frameworks. And it does so in binary terms that are already outdated, 30 years on.