Why do I feel like I wasted 27 years of my life?

It’s a question that’s haunted me almost every day since January 2023.
And yes — that feeling predates his death. I’ve explored it in therapy, written about it, argued with it, and still, it lingers. The universal response I get is some variation of “you can’t go back and change the past.”

Okay, fine. I get that. None of us have Mr. Peabody’s Wayback Machine. But that’s not the point. The point — and it has been for a long time — is this: where did I go wrong, and why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I hear my friends, my providers, or even the interventions I once taught others as a healthcare professional?

What happens in the mind of someone who knows they’re in the cycle of abuse, recognizes the signs, and still stays?
If I could answer that question and fix it with perfect accuracy, I’d still be sitting here in the same life — probably watching someone else take credit for my solution. That’s not cynicism. That’s just lived experience.

And while I’m solving impossible problems, I’d also love to know why I can’t stop ruminating about this.
The loop has been running since January 2023 and only got louder after May of that year — for reasons that need no introduction. It consumes me some days. I suspect most of my friends are sick of hearing about it, and I don’t blame them.

I’ve come to think of this rumination as part of the grief process — unique to each person, tied not just to loss but to identity. It feels like the biggest hurdle I face, dwarfing everything else. I know the answer is to keep working through it, to keep showing up to therapy, to keep talking. But knowing and doing are two very different things.

I’ve become more withdrawn than I’d like to admit. The combination of stroke deficits and depression can make the world outside my front door seem like enemy territory. None of the strokes were individually catastrophic, but having five leaves a mark. I’m not homebound, but the “what-ifs” still play in my head like a bad radio signal. The ruminating mind loves to whisper what if it happens again?

So yes, some days it’s easier to stay home and wallow.
But I’m fighting that instinct.

Recently, I’ve made more of an effort to get out. A few weeks ago, I went to see Above & Beyond live. For a few hours, I forgot everything — no grief, no self-recrimination, no mental static. Just light, sound, and motion. It felt good.

Then, this past weekend, I caught a matinee at the opera — my favorite service dog by my side. It was beautiful. I even took myself out to dinner afterward, to a little restaurant that isn’t on DoorDash or Uber Eats. If I’m going to drive there anyway, I might as well sit down and savor it. It felt like a small victory — one that I’m proud of.

Yesterday, I met up with a friend and we toddled around running errands, shopping, and sharing lunch. He’s probably my only regular, local, in-person friend — and I value that more than I say.

My family has also re-entered my life in ways I didn’t expect. My sister and I talk more often now, and it’s oddly comforting. She’s back in school, finishing her surgical tech degree — a trade she first learned in the Army. She took care of Mom in her final years, and her grief runs deep. Mine does too. My mother and I had our rough patches, thanks in no small part to a husband who despised her, but I loved that woman fiercely. I miss calling her “my favorite old bat,” a title she wore proudly.

Being there for my sister now — listening, supporting, just being present — has done a lot for my own self-esteem.

Still, I sometimes find myself fixating on the lack of in-person friends. It’s hard not to notice how many people drifted away — when my marriage fell apart, when the substance use got bad, when the health issues started stacking up. I’ve dissected it all endlessly in therapy and in these pages. The answer, at least for now, is acceptance.

As my therapist put it recently, “It’s their loss.”

And she’s right.

No matter how many people walk away, my dog — and the memory of my mother — remain constants. They’re my grounding forces in a world that keeps changing faster than I can keep up. And for now, that’s enough.