Regret can often feel like an unwanted companion, slipping in unnoticed but never leaving. In this piece, I explore how regret shapes our lives, its sometimes haunting presence, and the rituals we’ve formed around it. I invite you to reflect with me on what regret truly means and whether it’s something we need to carry with us or something we can let go of.

Regret is an odd kind of companion. It doesn’t knock on your door or ask for a place to stay—it simply arrives, settling into your thoughts with a familiarity that feels both strange and inevitable. You don’t invite it, but somehow, it knows exactly where to sit. It often shows up late at night, in the moments when silence is loudest. That’s when the questions start: Do they still remember the way your voice cracked that one time? Did you do enough? Did you say too much? Regret doesn’t just linger in the past—it pulls it into the present, making you replay moments that have already slipped away.

For years, I’ve wondered why regret feels so powerful. Why it demands so much of us. And I think it’s because we’ve taught ourselves to treat it as something sacred. We’ve turned it into a ritual: second-guessing becomes a form of penance, doubt becomes a kind of communion. We kneel at the altar of what-ifs, whispering prayers for the versions of ourselves we’ll never get to be.

But is regret really meant to be revered? Or have we given it that power out of fear—fear of letting go, fear of moving forward, fear of what comes next when we stop looking back?

Regret is, in some ways, a teacher. It has saved me from impulsive leaps I wasn’t ready to make, kept me grounded when I needed to be. But it’s a flawed guide, one that often whispers, “You’re not enough,” instead of, “You can try again.”

What happens if we stop worshiping regret? I’ve been sitting with that question lately, and the answer isn’t as simple as I’d like. Regret can feel like an anchor, but it’s also a tether—a connection to the parts of ourselves that still long for resolution. If we let it go, we risk feeling unmoored, lost in the vastness of everything we haven’t yet figured out.

And yet, there’s something liberating about imagining life without regret as a constant companion. A silence that isn’t hollow, but full of possibility. A space where we can finally breathe, unburdened by the weight of what could have been.

I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know if we’ll ever truly let go of regret, or if we simply learn to carry it differently. But I like to believe there’s a way to hold it lightly, to let it remind us of where we’ve been without dictating where we’re going.

Maybe regret isn’t something to worship or overcome. Maybe it’s just a shadow—one that shifts and stretches but never stays the same.

How do you hold your own regrets? Do they weigh you down, or have you found a way to let them pass through?

Thank you for taking this journey with me. It’s always a privilege to share these thoughts with you.

warmly,

Arica.