Regret
The topic I want to tap into today is regret: it’s a certain type of ache that we each carry alone—the kind we believe doesn’t show up in our voice or posture. But eventually, it does. On the way to long-term physical impairment, we feel it in the quiet moments.
When the lights go down, we try to be still with ourselves, and then that memory creeps in: that decision from long ago that got you here and not there; that missed chance "that would have made all the difference"; the words left unsaid, or the ones we can’t take back.
Regret is a silent ghost that lingers, wrapping itself around joy, dulling the flavour of new beginnings, and pulling us back into stories that should’ve ended long ago. All this prevents surrender, increases materialism, leads to loopy thinking, and stymies problem-solving.
These aren’t just passing thoughts—they’re quiet, persistent wounds we inflict upon ourselves. The thoughts are not real, but the wounds are. And they can be deadly when unresolved.
Here’s why there’s so much regret in the world: the way out of it is introspection and quiet— no words or judgement, just surrender. The kind that comes from a consistent meditation practice.
But when we sit quietly to meditate, there it is again—the regrets. We turn away and try to get around them, past them, into our meditation. But they cling to us like an octopus wrapped around the entire skull. So, we get up and move on with the busy day.
The power of moving inward, of being courageous and present—like a soldier—makes meditation the bravest thing you can do each day. Meditating with regret (and other things) takes more chutzpah (Yiddish word meaning shameless audacity; impudence) than public speaking, presenting at a board meeting, or maybe even bungee jumping.
When you turn inward—eyes closed, breath steady—facing all the “you’s” who have preceded the present You, it is akin to taking the field as a novice swordsman. It’s learning in real-time: on-the-job training.
The great epic Bhagavad Gita explains this inner battle through an actual war. I read it every year in January and discover my sword skills have improved steadily over the decades.
If you’re willing to feel whatever you’ve tried so hard not to feel, the regret eventually buckles—transforms into a cloud, then a breeze, then a void. And you are free, as long as you don’t judge the regret from any angle.
The people who stop living in regret aren’t different from you—they’re just brave. They stop waiting for clarity or a shortcut, or digging deeper into addiction. Instead, they start walking into the battle.
They interview the “you’s” of their past. They write poetry to those sweet people who, all together, comprise the miracle that you are today. One day, you will thank them all—and make art from their chaos.
