I’ve written a mountain about regret the past few years, particularly through the pandemic.
Regrets for not following my dreams… or having dreams large enough to grasp hold of. Regrets over a lack of ambition and self-confidence in those formative years.
Regrets when successful friends and minor celebrities come around for tea, and discover me still a nobody engaged in the mundane, residing in a tiny house, unknown by all.
These regrets come and go, ebb and flow. For days on end I find myself subsumed in grief for all the failures I have been… until it hits me: mistakes are underrated.
Our mistakes make us what we are… though it usually takes my beloved to smile at me and call me a daft buffoon for this to become real. I’m not a failure: I have just lived my life differently.