Regret is Going to Ruin You. Or Save You.

Wooden chair in a spotlight on a wooden floor. Text reads, Regret is going to ruin you.

I can’t stop thinking about how much time I’ve wasted being scared of the wrong things. Not scared in a run-for-your-life kind of way, but scared of being uncomfortable. Scared of looking stupid. Scared of failing at something I probably wouldn’t even remember in a year. It’s embarrassing, really, how many decisions I’ve let fear quietly make for me. Decisions that looked like choices, but really, they were just me taking the easiest way out because it felt safer. And yet, somehow, regret still snuck in through the cracks. Because that’s the thing about regret—it doesn’t care if you thought you were playing it safe. It’ll show up anyway.

You know what regret feels like? It’s not the punch-you-in-the-gut feeling of a big mistake, not usually. It’s quieter than that. It’s that tiny little whisper that asks, “What if you’d just done it?” and then doesn’t leave. And it’s always the same: not the things I’ve done, but the things I didn’t. The risks I talked myself out of because I convinced myself there’d be another chance, or it wasn’t worth it, or I wasn’t good enough.

I’m not even sure how I started living like this, with regret constantly hanging around like a bad roommate. I know we’re supposed to learn from it, grow, turn it into something meaningful, but mostly it just feels like a constant reminder of all the ways I’ve let myself down. And the worst part is, it’s not even the big stuff. It’s the tiny moments I didn’t think mattered at the time. That friend I didn’t call back. The question I didn’t ask because I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know the answer. The chance I didn’t take because I thought it was safer to stay where I was. None of it felt big at the time, but now? Now it’s a little heavier than I thought it would be.

I wonder sometimes if it’s possible to get rid of regret altogether. Probably not. But maybe the trick isn’t getting rid of it. Maybe the trick is making peace with it. Picking the kind of regret you can live with. Because you’re going to regret something, no matter what. That’s just how it works. There’s no perfect decision, no risk-free path. You’re either going to regret not trying, or you’re going to regret trying and having it blow up in your face. The question is, which one’s going to bother you less in the long run?

I’ve failed at plenty of things, and some of them were spectacular. But the funny thing is, I don’t regret any of them. Not really. They didn’t feel great at the time, but they faded. Failure does that. You look back on it and laugh, or cringe, or use it as a cautionary tale at parties, but it doesn’t stick to you the way inaction does. The regret of not trying is different. It’s sticky. It doesn’t fade. It sits there, quietly growing louder every time you wonder, “What if?”

Sometimes I think about the times I played it safe and wonder what kind of person I would be now if I hadn’t. Would I be braver? Smarter? Happier? I don’t know. But I know this: the moments where I did take the risk, where I felt sick with fear but did it anyway, those are the moments I don’t regret. Even when they went horribly wrong. Especially when they went horribly wrong.

And that’s the thing. Fear fades. Failure fades. But regret? Regret digs in its heels. It turns into this endless loop of what-could-have-been that you carry around with you forever. I hate that feeling. I hate the way it makes you question everything else in your life, even the good parts. But maybe it’s useful, too, in its own way. Maybe regret is just a compass pointing at all the things we’re too scared to admit we really want.

I think about this a lot when I’m stuck between two decisions. Fear shows up first, always. It screams at me to stay comfortable, to avoid the hard thing, to pick the option that feels safest. But regret’s there too, quieter, in the background, asking, “Are you sure you’re okay with this? Are you sure you’ll be able to live with this later?” And honestly, it’s regret that usually wins. Not because I’m brave, but because I’m stubborn. I don’t want to wake up ten years from now wondering if I missed my shot.

I don’t know. Maybe this is just me trying to make sense of it all, trying to figure out why regret feels like both a punishment and a gift at the same time. But I think about it constantly, especially now, because every decision feels heavier than it used to. It’s exhausting, honestly, but it’s also kind of fascinating.

I don’t have answers. I probably never will. But I do know this: if you’re going to regret something, regret trying. Regret putting yourself out there, even if it doesn’t work out. Because the regret of not trying? That’s the one that sticks. And you don’t need to carry it around forever.

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