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A colleague recently reported working with a leader who never learned the value of a good apology.

“He simply isn’t willing to apologize for anything,” my friend said of the leader. “Apparently he believes an apology would weaken his persona or set a dangerous precedent. We’re not talking about apologizing for a major sin or a crime — just for poor judgment, an erroneous decision, or a less-than-open communication.”

The reluctance to apologize seems to be fairly widespread. Some people are so self-absorbed that it just doesn’t occur to them that they could be wrong — or if they do occasionally make a mistake, that an apology is ever in order. Others are simply ill-mannered.

But I suspect the most common cause of the reluctance to apologize is the old-fashioned sell out. In this context, a sell out is a self-justifying story that lets us off the hook. We sell out to our convenience, our comfort, our pride, or even our fears.
These sell outs can go something like this:

Another factor for some people is that they don’t have much experience with apologizing. When they were told as children to apologize, they got away with a quick and shallow “sorry.” No real investment in the person wronged, no restitution, no real feeling behind the perfunctory word.
And of course we have very few public models of good apologies.

Carol Tavis and Elliot Aronson have written an entire book on the subject. It’s titled Mistakes Were Made (but not by me) with the telling subtitle Why We Justify Foolish Beliefs, Bad Decisions, and Hurtful Acts.

“Even irrefutable evidence is rarely enough to pierce the mental armor of self-justification,” Tavis and Aronson write.

They point out that self-justification is not the same as lying or making excuses. There’s a difference between what a guilty man says to the public to convince them of something he knows is untrue (Bill Clinton’s famous, “I did not have sex with that woman”) and a man’s process of persuading himself that he did a good thing (Richard Nixon’s, “I am not a crook").

“In the former situation he is lying and knows he is lying to save his own skin,” the authors write. “In the latter, he is lying to himself. That is why self-justification is more powerful and more dangerous than the explicit lie.”

Self-justification even has its own language patterns. Some politicians, for example, have refined the art of speaking in the passive voice. When the clear evidence points to their wrongdoing (an audit report, a revealing video, a news reporter’s well-documented exposé), what they try to pass off as an “apology” often sounds something like, well, like “Mistakes were made … but not by me.” At most an oblique acknowledgment of error, but certainly not responsibility.

The malady crosses all demographic lines — from children on the playground to professional athletes.

Terrell Owens is a gifted wide receiver for the Dallas Cowboys in the National Football League. His excellent foot speed, great hands, and remarkable jumping ability make him one of the best players at his position.

T.O., as he is popularly known, also has an outsized ego and boorish manners. On his previous two teams — the Philadelphia Eagle and the San Francisco 49ers — he regularly bad-mounted his coaches and teammates. His public statements are often characterized by victim and villain stories — he, of course, is the victim while others, of course, are the villains.

Shortly after he joined the Cowboys, ESPN did a brief piece on Owens. The network commentator introduced one interview clip with, “Today Terrell Owens issued an apology to his former teammates.” Eager to hear what a Terrell Owens “apology” might sound like, I turned up the volume on my television. Here’s what I heard: “It’s too bad about all that stuff that was going on. I think it’s time to play football.”

Hmmm. To me it sounded more like an accusation than an apology. Another bad model of apologizing. No wonder so many people don’t know how to do it.

Now, back to sell outs. One of the most common seems to be “I don’t want to apologize because it’s a sign of weakness.

A couple of years ago a man came to me and said “Rodger, I owe you an apology.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “For what?”

“Well, I thought you had divulged confidential information on my company, and I was very upset about it. But then I discovered that not only had you not divulged the information, but you explicitly encouraged others to maintain the same high level of confidentiality. So I want to apologize for being upset with you.”

“Of course I appreciate and accept your apology,” I said. “Did you mention your upset to anyone else.”

“Oh, no,” the man said. “I kept my feelings entirely to myself. And when I got the accurate information I just wanted to come and apologize for misjudging you.”

Wow. That man taught me a fresh nuance on integrity. He had said nothing to anyone that might besmirch my reputation. He had kept his feelings entirely to himself. But because he values our relationship and because he’s more vested in what’s right than in what’s comfortable, he apologized for a “wrong” that I didn’t even know existed.

I always thought well of that man. How do suppose I think of him now? I regard him as one of the most honest and trustworthy people I know. It would absolutely never occur to me that he is “weak” because he apologized. In fact, his apology was a remarkable example of strength.

A good apology has several ingredients:

The best thing, of course, is to behave in a way that makes apologies unnecessary. But we’re all human, and susceptible to the human tendency toward self-justification.

You know that guy down the hall? He’s not perfect, is he? Neither are you. And don’t kid yourself. Everyone else knows it, too. In fact, if you’re too proud or too clueless to apologize when appropriate, other people are likely more aware of your vulnerabilities than you are. That’s a dangerous combination.

A specific, heartfelt apology is anything but a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of maturity, caring, and strength. It’s a great pump primer for meaningful dialogue (see “Feedback: Breakfast of Champions”). And it’s an excellent way to keep yourself grounded in the reality that you can learn from your own imperfections.