One specific acknowledgement
Name the actual thing. 'I called you selfish and brought up something you told me in confidence.' Specific, once. This is the whole verbal component, and it is smaller than most people expect.
An apology closes a conversation. Repair is what happens across the following weeks, and it is mostly not verbal. This is about the part after the talking — including the most common way people undo their own repair while trying to complete it.
In order. Each stage fails if the one before it was skipped, which is why repair attempted entirely in one evening rarely holds.
Name the actual thing. 'I called you selfish and brought up something you told me in confidence.' Specific, once. This is the whole verbal component, and it is smaller than most people expect.
Not what you meant — what it did. 'I think that made you feel like nothing you tell me is safe.' Getting this roughly right does more than a perfect apology, because it demonstrates that you were paying attention to them rather than to your own guilt.
One. Concrete enough that they would notice without being told. Leaving the room at eight out of ten instead of continuing. Answering the actual question. Repair is evidenced by behaviour and nothing else does the job.
This is the hard one. Returning to it repeatedly — checking whether they have forgiven you, re-apologising, asking if things are okay — moves the burden onto them and asks them to manage your guilt. It is the single most common way repair gets undone.
Trust rebuilds through unremarkable days, not through discussion. A run of ordinary evenings in which nothing goes wrong is the mechanism. It is slow, it cannot be accelerated, and attempting to accelerate it restarts the clock.
Repair and self-punishment look similar from inside and completely different from outside. Check which one you are actually doing.
If more than three are unticked, the repair has quietly become a request for reassurance. That is understandable and it puts the person you hurt in charge of managing your feelings about hurting them, which is the opposite of repair.
The shame that follows an episode is frequently more intense than the episode. It generates an urgent need to be forgiven, and the need does not stop when forgiveness is offered, because the shame is not actually about the other person's verdict. So the apologising continues.
From the outside this is exhausting in a particular way. Each repetition asks the injured person to do emotional work — to reassure, to absolve, to confirm that you are not a bad person. They are now managing your distress about the thing you did to them. Some people do it for years and grow resentful in a way they cannot articulate, because objectively you were being apologetic.
It also prevents the thing that would actually help. Repair is demonstrated by a run of ordinary days, and every reopening resets the run. A month of nothing going wrong is worth more than any number of conversations, and the conversations actively prevent the month.
There is a harder version of this for the times when the other person will not accept repair. Sometimes the damage is too much, or too repeated, and no apology is going to land. That is a real outcome, it is grief rather than a problem to solve, and continuing to pursue repair past that point is usually about your own unbearable feeling rather than about them.
In the book, chapter 4 covers the shame that drives all of this and chapter 15's self-compassion material is the relevant skill — not to let yourself off, but because self-punishment and repair cannot happen at the same time. Chapter 26 covers what rebuilding looks like over the longer run.
A tenth apology is a request. The first one was a gift.