The Weight of Goodbye
There are so many regrets in my life—memories I wish I could erase and moments I long to rewrite. I find myself thinking, "If only I could turn back time and fix my mistakes." But deep down, I know that some regrets stay with us forever, becoming a part of who we are.
I still remember that fateful day so clearly. My final goodbye to my grandmother is a memory I cannot escape. She wasn't well, and we rushed her to the capital by ambulance. Halfway there, she began to struggle for breath. I remember how she looked at me, and in that moment, I felt completely helpless. We sped to the nearest hospital, but that was the last time I saw her.
When we arrived, it felt as if time had stopped. I was surrounded by the chaos of busy doctors, hurried voices, and swift movements, yet I was frozen—lost in a swirl of confusion and sorrow. I was so young and overwhelmed by everything that was happening. I kept thinking, "What do I do now?" as the world around me continued without pause.
That day changed me in ways I'm still trying to understand. The loss shattered my innocent view of life, and it forced me to question everything I once believed. I began to wonder if there was any meaning to the pain, and slowly, I started embracing a new way of seeing the world—one where I no longer clung to the old beliefs that once gave me comfort. I became an atheist, a decision born from the need to find answers in a changed reality.
Sometimes, when I'm alone, I think to myself about that day. I remember the helplessness, the fear, and the pain. I wonder if I'll ever find peace or if these regrets will always be with me, quiet companions on my journey.
The Undiagnosed Struggle
I don't think this is a regret, but rather a wish—something I wish had been different. I wish someone had noticed my dyslexia when I was younger. If only someone had seen the signs, maybe things wouldn't have been so difficult for me.
When I would send notes or try to express myself, my dyslexia would make everything harder. I struggled, and instead of understanding why, I just felt stupid. If I could go back in time, maybe I could tell my younger self that it wasn't my fault, that I wasn't dumb—I just needed the right kind of help.
I wonder how different things could have been if someone had recognized it early. Maybe I wouldn't have felt so lost. Maybe I would have had more confidence. But I can't change the past. All I can do now is move forward, knowing that I am not defined by my struggles but by how I overcome them.
The Invisible Battle
Now that I think about it, why did no one recognize that I have dyslexia? I always struggled with reading and writing—I would fail most exams, not because I lacked the intelligence or effort, but because the words on the page just wouldn't come together for me.
I've always had trouble with reading and writing, and it felt like I was fighting a battle no one else could see. I often wonder if things could have been different if someone had noticed earlier. If only there had been someone to say, "I see you're struggling; let's get you some help," perhaps I wouldn't have felt so lost and defeated.
That feeling of being misunderstood, of constantly falling behind despite my best efforts, still lingers with me. It's not just about the exams or the grades—it's about the feeling of never quite measuring up because of something that isn't my fault.
Even now, I think about how much easier life might have been if my dyslexia had been recognized early on, if I had received the support I needed as a child. Instead, I had to learn to cope on my own, and that struggle has shaped who I am today.
The Art of Missing Out
My biggest regret isn't about a single mistake—it's about not enjoying life as I should have. I realize now that I spent so much time worrying and struggling that I forgot to savor the moments that truly mattered. I see my friends living with what seems like extraordinary luck, embracing life with joy, and from the outside, it appears as though they have it all. Yet, deep inside, I always felt there was something missing.
I can't pinpoint when it started, but somewhere along the way, I lost the ability to truly enjoy life. Watching others laugh and live fully reminds me of the happiness I never allowed myself to experience. It's a painful reminder of what could have been, a regret that has shadowed me all along.
Sometimes, even when I'm with someone or see young couples around me, I find myself caught in a cycle of overthinking. Instead of embracing the joy of a relationship, I'm weighed down by constant worry. This habit of over-analyzing every little detail makes it hard for me to enjoy life, and sometimes it even feels cringeworthy. I long to live more freely, but these thoughts keep me from truly experiencing happiness like others seem to.
The Unspoken Confession
It's a bit embarrassing to share, but it's a part of my story. Throughout my life, I've had many crushes. I remember one from grade 5—a fleeting childhood admiration. She got engaged at 18, but back then, it didn't really matter. I never spoke to her, and I don't regret it. It was just a passing feeling.
But then came another crush—one that stayed with me.
It all started in grade 8 when I first saw her. I wasn't at school much because of health issues, but on the rare days I attended, I'd notice her. She always sat at the back of the classroom, while I was up front on the opposite side. It felt like we lived in two different worlds. In grade 9, my absences continued, yet each time I was there, I couldn't help but look for her.
By grade 10, I was at school more often, but even then, I couldn't bring myself to talk to her. It was obvious to everyone—I had a crush on her. The girls in class would tease me, saying her name just to get a reaction, but I always denied it. I convinced myself I wasn't good enough for her, that if I said anything, I'd somehow ruin everything. Overthinking became my worst enemy.
Then, one day, when we were alone in class, she said something that caught me off guard. It wasn't direct, but I understood what she meant: "I like you, but I don't know why." My heart raced. This was it—the moment I had always imagined. I wanted to tell her I felt the same. I wanted to say it loud and clear. But when the words left my mouth, they weren't what I intended. I simply shrugged and muttered something meaningless.
That's the moment I'll regret for the rest of my life.
What if I had just said yes? What if I had been honest instead of hiding behind my fears? Would things have been different?
After grade 10, we never spoke again. I never saw her after the final exams. It's been over a year now, but the memory hasn't faded.
Sometimes, I catch myself scrolling through her Instagram, wondering about the life she's living now. Not in a way that hopes for something to change—just in a way that reminds me of the chance I never took.
I know I can't go back. I can't rewrite that moment. But if there's one thing I've learned from it, it's this: the regrets that haunt us most aren't from the things we did—they're from the things we never had the courage to do.
And this? This is one regret I'll always carry with me.
The Prison of Overthinking
There are many regrets in my life, but if I had to name the one thing that held me back the most, it would be overthinking. It has been both a shield and a prison—keeping me safe from failure but also stopping me from truly living. I've lost count of the chances I let slip away because my mind wouldn't let me take them.
I've already shared one of my biggest regrets—the moment in grade 10 when she told me she liked me, and instead of saying what I felt, I hesitated. I overthought everything. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I ruined her life? What if this was a mistake? I convinced myself of every possible disaster, and in the end, I said nothing. That moment still haunts me, not because I lost her, but because I lost the chance to be honest with myself.
But that wasn't the only time overthinking stole something from me. It has shaped so many moments of my life.
"The mind is a wonderful servant, but a terrible master."
There were times when I wanted to raise my hand in class but didn't, fearing I'd say something wrong. Opportunities to make friends that I let slip by because I was too afraid of being awkward. I hesitated to share my ideas, worried they wouldn't be good enough. Even outside of school, I overthought everything—whether to try something new, whether to say what was on my mind, whether to just enjoy the moment without questioning it.
I used to watch other people live freely, making mistakes, laughing, and moving on. Meanwhile, I stayed stuck in my head, analyzing every decision before I even made it. And more often than not, by the time I was done thinking, the moment had already passed.
I wish I had taken all the chances I had. I wish I had learned sooner that failure isn't the worst thing—inaction is. Because when you fail, at least you learn. But when you overthink, you get nothing. Just the haunting thought of what could have been.
I still struggle with it. Even now, I catch myself overanalyzing moments, hesitating when I should act. But I don't want to let overthinking control me forever. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that no amount of thinking will change the past. And no amount of hesitation will make the future perfect.
The only thing I can do—the only thing any of us can do—is to act despite the fear. To take the risk, to say what needs to be said, to live in the moment before it's gone.
Because in the end, the regrets that hurt the most aren't from the mistakes we made. They're from the chances we never took.