Regret and Relief
In an earlier reflection, I wrote that I had no regrets.
When someone spoke about their regret, recently.
I found myself thinking more deeply about regret itself. What does it really mean to regret something?
Is it enough to wish things had been different, or does genuine regret ask something more of us?
And why, when I look back over my own life, is the feeling that rises so often not regret, but relief?
Regret is described as sadness about something wrong that has happened, or a mistake we have made, together with the wish that it could have been different or better.
Relief is almost the opposite: the feeling that comes when something unpleasant has ended or has not happened.
Perhaps that is why, when I look back over my life, relief is so much stronger than regret.
Most of us will probably know regret at some point, even if we don't immediately recognise it. It may appear as a feeling, a doubt, a memory, or simply the knowledge that we could have behaved differently.
And perhaps there are some people who never feel it at all.
I wonder about those who could beat a vulnerable teenager senseless, again and again, leaving damage to their body that would remain long after the bruises had disappeared.
Do they ever look back and feel regret?
And I wonder about the father who says he misses his children, yet gave them nothing. Not even a pair of socks. Who could say that giving to his children meant giving to their mother, and so gave nothing at all, while making sure he had everything he wanted.
And still does.
Years later, he may say, "I should have done things differently. I was immature then."
But what if the words express sadness for what he lost, while responsibility for what his children lost is still avoided?
Is that regret?
Or is regret something more?
I have heard the sadness about what was lost, about missing the children and about things that should have been done differently.
For a moment, I listened.
And then I found myself asking a different question.
What had actually changed?
Because saying, "I should have done things differently," is not the same as doing things differently.
And it isn't about blaming someone else for our own actions or behaviour.
Saying you miss your children does not change all the times, from their childhood into adulthood, when you chose not to provide for them, support them or put their needs before your own.
And describing past behaviour as immaturity may explain how someone now chooses to see it, but it does not undo its consequences.
What struck me most was that the sadness still seemed to be about what had been lost by the person speaking.
And I found myself wondering about what had been lost by the children.
Where was the regret for that?
Relationships need something from us if they are to grow. Time, care, love, interest, support and a willingness to give something of ourselves. We cannot continually take from a relationship, place little value on it while it is there, and then expect it to be waiting unchanged when we decide we want it again.
Children grow. They become adults. They form their own understanding of what happened and of the people who were, or were not, there for them.
Perhaps that is another difficult part of regret. We may eventually recognise the value of something we once neglected, but that does not give us a right to reclaim it simply because we now feel its loss.
Otherwise, are we really thinking about the other person?
Or are we still thinking about what we want?
Perhaps there is a difference between words of regret and genuine regret.
Words can sometimes make the person saying them feel better. We can say, "I should have done things differently," without truly looking at what our actions meant for someone else. The words may ease our own discomfort, while nothing within us really changes.
Genuine regret, I believe, asks more of us.
It asks us to recognise what we did, to accept responsibility for it and, where we can, to change.
But I don't believe we are meant to live inside regret forever either.
Once we have truly recognised what was wrong, learned from it and done what we can to make things different, there comes a time when regret itself has to be released.
Otherwise, how do we move forward?
I have seen that kind of regret too.
Years after I had chosen to leave some people and patterns behind, one of those people needed help.
And I gave it.
I was with them as they were dying.
I held their hand, and they spoke about regret.
In that moment, I didn't want them to remain trapped by what had happened. I tried to help them see that recognising something had been wrong mattered. They knew it had been wrong, and perhaps in recognising that, they could finally let it go.
As they took their last breath, the first light of the morning came through the window.
I have never forgotten that.
I believe they stepped into that light free from regret.
Perhaps that moment taught me something about regret that I didn't fully recognise at the time.
Taking responsibility matters.
Recognising what was wrong matters.
But I don't believe regret has to become a punishment we carry forever.
Sometimes recognising the truth may be what finally allows us to put it down.
I can look back at my own life and know there are things I would do differently now.
But that does not mean I regret the path I took.
Sometimes, when someone from the past contacts me, I am struck by how differently we can remember the same past.
I hear words spoken as though we are still the people we were then. My name is used with a familiarity that belongs to another time.
But I don't wander back there.
I know what happened.
I know what was given and what was not. I know the choices that were made and the harm those choices caused.
And I know how different things could have been for my children if I had not listened to that inner voice, paid attention to my dreams and trusted what I somehow knew.
That is when I feel relief most strongly.
Not because I can change the past, but because I changed our direction.
I got us away.
And whatever version of the past someone else may choose to remember, I know what that decision meant for us.
There were times when behaviour that should never have been acceptable had somehow become accepted. There were patterns created by other people that had influenced my life and, for a time, affected what I believed I had to tolerate.
There came a point when I began to recognise that what I had accepted for myself was not something
I was willing to accept as part of my children's lives.
Something had to change.
When it came to my children, I found a strength and courage within me that I hadn't always found for myself.
For a time, I believed I could change what was happening around us. Eventually I understood that I couldn't change other people or make them take responsibility for their choices.
But I could make my own choices.
I could change the direction of our lives.
And that is what I chose to do.
It meant leaving some people behind and continuing forward without them.
Little by little, I moved towards a different way of living.
A life where my children had the freedom to grow rather than being continually influenced by the worst aspects of another person's behaviour.
A life where different values could take root.
Love. Kindness. Compassion. Responsibility. Laughter. The freedom to become who they were meant to be.
When I think about my children, I remember doing whatever was needed. I made sure they were clothed and fed, supported and cared for. I laughed with them and cried with them. I happily went without when it meant they had what they needed.
But it was never only about what I could give them.
I wanted them to know they mattered. I wanted them to feel loved and safe, to know I was there, and to have foundations strong enough to build lives of their own.
Today, I look at them and at the lives they have created, and I see them thriving.
That means more to me than I could ever adequately put into words.
The path I walked to get us there was not an easy one, and the path I walk today is not always easy either.
But it is mine.
And when I look at all those I have loved, cared for and protected along the way, I know why I would not exchange it for another.
My body has weakened through cancer, surgery and everything it has been through, and some of the old physical wounds of the past make themselves known now through pain.
I have the scars.
I live with some of the consequences.
But they were part of my way out.
I recognise that now.
Would I have chosen some of the things that happened to me?
Of course not.
Would I choose to carry those scars if there had been another way?
Of course not.
But would I go back and change the choices that brought my children, family, friends and me to the life we have now?
Never.
That, for me, is the difference between accepting what happened and regretting the path I took afterwards.
I don't regret finding our way out.
I learned that love is not simply something we say.
Words alone do not give love its depth. That comes through care, support, understanding and the way we are there for one another.
Love can be spoken, but if there is nothing beneath the words to support it, what does it really mean?
Sometimes words can offer the picture of everything that could be shared — love, support, a different life, all that someone could give.
But words are easy.
If the reality is always centred on what one person wants, what they need and what they keep for themselves, then the words begin to feel shallow.
Perhaps that is why I sometimes ask myself what makes a life truly full.
From the outside, someone's life may appear full.
But full of what?
I can only answer that question for myself.
For me, a full life has depth. It is found in love that is shown, in care, compassion, laughter, friendship and family. In what we share with others, not simply what we keep for ourselves.
Our lives touch others along the way, and perhaps we should remember that more often.
Before our actions become somebody else's scars and our own regrets, perhaps we need to consider the consequences of the choices we make.
When I look at my children, my family, my friends and the life I have now, I don't look back wishing for a different one.
I know the choices I made helped shape the life we have now.
And perhaps that is what relief really means to me.