thoughts about regrets
When I was younger, I was fond of declaring that “I had no regrets.” The way I saw things, my mistakes—many of which I was aware of, but many more of which I was not—were what I learned and even profited from. They were an inextricable part of the journey to who I am. Without them, I would be a different person. As such, to look back wistfully on a life of “what ifs” forsakes the current life that is. I thus concluded that regrets were a particular weakness that I was above.
One year in middle school, I was zoning out in English and found myself reading the inspirational posters plastered across the wall. A particularly garish one caught my attention. I remember it as a miasma of clashing fonts and colors with little creative cohesion. The only consistent trait was the chalky texture that distinguished a quarter of the embellishment and half the text which read: “Life is all about making mistakes and learning from them.”1 I scoffed, deeming the poster vapid and dismissing it as such. In retrospect, my dismissal of that poster was—ironically—regrettable.
On my 19th birthday, I read an earth-shattering statistic: “By the time you turn 18, you’ve already spent 90% of your time with your parents.”2 It’s an inevitable part of growing up but reading that statistic broke me. How much of the priceless 90% did I spend lying or bickering? Regardless of what the answer may be, the answer was always too much. Following this, I reconsidered my life, and regrets revealed themselves eagerly.
Recent as it may be, I hardly recognize the boy who proclaimed sans regret. The past is static and unreachable, but as I reflect, the regrets impossibly multiply. I’ve kowtowed when I should have stood firm, been stubborn when I should have yielded. I’ve spoken carefully when boldness was needed and been blunt when gentleness would have served better. Above all, I failed too often as a friend, brother, and son. When I should have been there, I simply was not. Often, these mistakes begot opportunity; I look at them with melancholy.
I now see a life lived as a life filled with regrets.3 Regret is a recognition that you made a choice. Perhaps you were forced or believed it was correct, but now, looking back on the road you walked and the callouses you earned, you wonder if you chose the right path all those years ago. How can we not have such feelings? We can never travel down two roads in their totality; crossroads are inevitable and somewhere out there, Janus chuckles.
For the past few months, I’ve journaled regularly. Across entries, I frequently end on a note of “doing better.” This sentiment, intertwined with regrets, has weighed on my consciousness recently. We are driven by our past mistakes to be “better” but inevitably fall short of perfection. Imperfection births regret, which drives betterment. And the cycle continues. The endless cycle of self-improvement feels daunting, especially when gazing back at an unchangeable past. But through this eternal struggle, I derive a purpose for regret.
Our regrets aren’t merely criticisms we level at our former selves or painful ruminations over past mistakes. Instead, they serve as mile markers, silently testifying to how far we’ve come. Each regret is a lesson learned, a sign that we’ve grown enough to recognize better paths we could or should have taken. In this light, regret’s weight isn’t solely a burden, but also a measure of our progress—a reminder that we are, indeed, doing better.