I think Thomas Wolfe was right when he said, “You can’t go home again.”

The real context of that quote comes from a posthumous novel and reads:

“You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood… back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”

Even though most of us wish we could, if only long enough to relive a moment or correct a mistake.

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you already know that changing the past is one of my recurring themes. It’s something I struggle with constantly, and I suspect I’m not alone in that. Most people carry some version of it around with them — a conversation they wish had gone differently, a decision they wish they could undo, or a road they wish they’d taken instead.

Today was particularly rough, and that quote hit harder than usual.

The hospital where I used to work recently opened a brand-new emergency department. After decades of functioning in what often felt like a glorified concrete bunker from the 1970s, they finally built something modern. I went to the ribbon cutting because, honestly, I wanted to see it.

And it was stunning.

Where the old ER always felt dim and cramped, this new department was bright, open, and thoughtfully designed. The patient rooms were outfitted with equipment that felt genuinely cutting-edge. Computer workstations sat outside every room. The mental health section had clearly been planned with intention instead of as an afterthought. The entire department flowed together in a way the old ER never did.

I worked in the old department for years, and there were shifts where it honestly felt like half the battle was simply finding equipment that still functioned properly. Seeing this new facility felt like seeing emergency medicine finally catch up to what we always hoped it could be.

I was genuinely happy for them.

Then reality hit me like a sledgehammer.

I am never going to work in that ER.

I will never sit at one of those workstations as a provider. I will never assess patients in those rooms. I will never use those monitors, that equipment, or be part of that environment. The only way I will ever see the inside of that beautiful new department again is as a patient.

That realization hurt far more than I expected it to.

Every time I walk into that hospital now, I’m reminded of something I lost. Of one of the better parts of my life that I had to walk away from. And with that comes the endless replay of all the things I could have done differently.

Regret is exhausting like that.

It also occurred to me today that we are approaching three years since I came home and found my husband dead. Somehow it feels impossibly distant and painfully recent at the same time.

As that anniversary approaches, I’ve spent a lot of time reflecting. I’ve started to realize that while I absolutely made mistakes, I was also a victim of circumstances I was not prepared to survive. I chose unhealthy coping mechanisms. I made decisions I regret deeply. I have written openly about many of them here.

But I’m also left wondering what, realistically, I thought I was supposed to do.

People love to say things like “go to therapy” or “process your grief,” and yes — those things matter. They help. But human beings are wired to look for immediate relief. We want the pain to stop now, not eventually. We live in a culture built around instant gratification. Whether they called it the MTV generation or the internet generation, the result is the same: we have become deeply uncomfortable sitting with pain.

So yes, I could have made better choices.

Should’ve. Could’ve. Would’ve.

But none of that changes the fact that we are left moving forward whether we feel ready to or not.

My close circle reminds me of this constantly. So does my therapist. Some days I manage it better than others. Other days — like today — I walk into a place filled with reminders of what could have been and feel like the emotional well of grace has run dry.

The question I keep asking myself is how you actually get past regret.

At first, after his death, my answer was substance use. It numbed things temporarily, even if it ultimately made everything worse. Beyond that, I still carry enormous regret over how I spent much of those 27 years. When I really stop and think about it, I realize that relationship occupied nearly half my life. Sometimes that realization feels less sad than simply overwhelming.

Lately, my preferred coping mechanism has become overloading myself with tasks until I’m too mentally exhausted to think clearly about any of them. And when that fails, I head to the wasteland.

Oddly enough, life feels normal there.

I know that sounds strange unless you know me personally, in which case it probably sounds completely on brand.

My therapist has pointed out that the wasteland itself is not necessarily unhealthy. Gaming gives me social interaction, structure, distraction, and familiarity. But it can also become isolating if it completely replaces real life.

Thankfully, real life has started opening up again a little.

Thanks to an exoskeleton device helping me walk more effectively, I’ve been getting out of the house far more often. I’m hoping that continuing to push myself outward instead of retreating inward will help ease some of this over time.

And despite everything, I know I still have a good situation, even when my brain insists otherwise.

So I’ll continue doing the best I can. I’ll continue hoping for better days. And I’ll continue leaning on the people — and dogs — who keep helping me move forward.

As always, my mom and my dog still help me do my best.