I guess the morning’s first lesson is this: therapy isn’t the worst thing you can do. I know that sounds like a commercial for BetterHelp, but hear me out—therapy can help you untangle why you feel the way you do about something. More importantly, it can help uncover what’s really underneath that feeling.

 

Let’s talk about regret (because it’s not like I haven’t already, right?). Regret isn’t the root problem. It’s a reaction—a symptom. What we say is, “I regret doing that,” but what’s actually happening is something deeper. Something we either don’t want to face or are scared to deal with is sitting just beneath the surface.

 

Case in point: I’ve talked a lot about the domestic violence I experienced and why I couldn’t take the advice I’d have given any of my patients. Why I let it drag on with no intervention. And if you read between the lines, there it is—pride.

 

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told myself, “I’m a damn good nurse practitioner, a great nurse—so how didn’t I see the signs? Why didn’t I act sooner?” That’s pride. Embarrassment comes in second. Saying “I need help” or “this is what’s really happening” feels like an admission that you’re not as competent or capable as people think you are—or as you want to be.

 

Pride shows up a lot in religious texts around the world as a bad thing. It’s often seen as boastful or arrogant. But in reality, pride is just a deep sense of satisfaction—whether from our own achievements or those of people we care about. And I was proud. I’d worked hard. I’d earned a master’s degree, built a reputation. I thought that made me immune to being in a situation I should have recognized.

 

So when the fertilizer hit the rotating ventilator, I didn’t act. I didn’t see the red flags—or maybe I ignored them. Denial? Distraction? Hubris? Take your pick. But I was convinced, deep down, that I was too smart for something like that to happen to me.

 

Spoiler: I wasn’t.

 

That brings us to regret. Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t I say something? Why didn’t I leave sooner? Over and over. And in therapy today, we traced it again, all the way back to pride. Pride in who I was. Pride in my knowledge. Pride in how “strong” I thought I was. But none of that mattered when I couldn’t heal myself.

 

My therapist pointed out something else too: emotions fuel regret. When you feel something deeply about a past event, that’s when regret starts to claw its way in. You should have known. You should have done better.

 

And then there’s resentment. God, the resentment I’ve carried—at being abused, at staying too long, at letting it happen. Resentment feeds regret. If only I’d said something. If only I’d acted. But “if only” won’t rewrite history.

 

So now? I purge. Not in the angry, burn-it-all-down way. But quietly. Intentionally. I’ve tried to give away the things that belonged to him—to people who would appreciate them. His high school medals and plaques? I sent them to his parents. I know they remember those years fondly, and they deserve to hold onto those memories. His other trinkets and bits and bobs went to friends who might smile at the sight of them.

 

But I can’t keep them. Not because I’m heartless. Because they carry memories that punch like a gut shot. And those memories? They trigger emotions that are anything but kind.

 

Those negative emotions, layered with pride, drive anger. And that anger? It becomes regret.

 

Therapy, though? Therapy helps. It’s someone holding up a mirror to your thoughts, pointing out the places where you’re stuck. It gives you a chance to process the intricacies of feelings that are tangled up like old Christmas lights. It’s been invaluable to me.

 

Honestly, there was a point a few months ago when I thought, maybe I don’t need this anymore. Life was starting to feel as “normal” as it’s going to get. And, of course, right after that thought—bam—something new came up. It always does. But I’m still trying to stay on the path, even if I veer off course now and then. Some days I’m closer to healing. Some days I’m lost in the woods. It just depends.

 

Grief is a journey that never ends. We like to pretend it wraps up in six months with a bow on it, and you’re back to your old self. I wish that were true. I used to wonder about the older women at church who wore black for the rest of their lives after their husbands died. How could someone grieve for so long? Now I know. Now I understand exactly how.

 

As Viktor Frankl wrote in Man’s Search for Meaning, we can’t live our entire lives chained to the past. But we can take those moments and shape them into something that helps guide the future. The events of the last two years aren’t all of who I am—but they are part of me. The goal is to integrate them, not be defined by them.

 

So that’s where I’m at today. Still proud. Still regretful. Still trying.

 

As always, pet your dog, call your mom, and remind them both how important they are.