I once heard that the only things we’ll regret are things we didn’t do. It’s harder to find things that you regret doing unless it directly caused a negative impact, usually some sort of failure that’s unrecoverable. But when it comes to your general life, you’ll usually regret not doing more, never less.
This reminds me of a time in history class back in grade 12. Our teacher, Mr. Bryan, told us to write down a few things, one of them being a thing we regretted. He read all of them aloud. I was the only one who wrote down “I regret nothing.” When he got to mine, he called me delusional. It hit me because, well, was I delusional?
I define regret as something I wish I could change. And up to that point in time, I couldn’t find things to regret. We live with the consequences of our actions, so what’s the point of regretting the past when you can always look forward? If past me made a mistake, then would I make that same mistake again? If so, then clearly, I didn’t regret it. For if I did, I would change.
Screw wishful thinking, think about your wishes and work towards them. And if you can’t, then figure out why you can’t and proceed. There will be moments we get caught temporarily in our own traps and vices. In those moments, you have to fight back, not wonder if doing things differently would have changed how the hell you got here. You’re already suffering, don’t make it harder on yourself…
Maybe I should tell you why I’m writing this piece in the first place. I found out that one of my professors passed away. I was in his last class. I never attended lectures due to my laziness, commuting, the timing, and every excuse a terrible student could come up with. Hell, I even held my office hours during his lectures. I never really interacted with him, except tests and a very special interaction we had; an interview I had with him for a writing course. I asked him to tell me stories about a specific person in the past, let’s call him F, someone who passed away long ago.
He told me about these stories with audible happiness ringing from his voice, despite sounding a little monotone. The few times I saw him in person, he was always smiling. Much more than anyone other professor I knew. My friends always used to talk about his outfits, his most eye catching being shorts and suspenders with sandals. But always suspenders regardless of day.
Either before or after the final exam, I thanked him for the interview and that I was happy with my piece. I emailed him the following on the 4th of April, with some details omitted:
Dear Professor,
I want to thank you again for your help with my writing project. I really enjoyed hearing about F and his stories. I attached a copy of the story. Please, don't feel pressured to read it.
On an aside, I enjoyed taking the course. It would be nice if I could take another class with you.
Best,
Fahad Hossaini
The next day, he responded as such:
Hi Fahad,
Wonderful. I love it.
Well done.
Between us, there was a moment of time shared that no one else could intrude on. Even though the interview is recorded, I don’t think it affects the weight of that moment. And that memory is mine and mine alone now. Despite how minor of a role I played in his life, there is something he gave me uniquely.
I wonder how many memories have been lost, even though they were cherished. And yet, that’s the temporality of our existence. We race to record. To make permanent. To preserve. But decay is inevitable. Entropy beckons our creations to its grasp, and unable to resist, they march onwards toward certain destruction. There’s beauty in the fact that order can’t exist forever. And that even in our decay, it all coalesces. And every small thing that we tried to maintain, even in its eventual disfigured and unrecognizable form, is needed for the whole.
So, as a reminder to myself first, cherish it all. Everything that you can hold close, grasp it tightly. And if you can’t, then hold it heavily in your heart. Look forward. And when you’re ready, take risks. So that way, you can finally stop regretting.