68. Learning To Live With Regrets
Regret is a heavy word. It's a burden that weighs down the soul, a shadow that lingers long after the darkest days have passed. I have known that weight intimately, especially from my time in active addiction. Those were the days when I lost myself, made choices that I will never be proud of, and hurt people I deeply cared for. The pain of those memories—the lives I affected, the promises I broke—can be overwhelming. What I’ve come to understand is that while regret can be paralyzing, it doesn’t have to be. It doesn’t have to stop my recovery, and today, I refuse to let it. This is my story of living with regret and learning to rise above it.
In active addiction, life becomes a blur. Time slips through your fingers, and before you know it, years have passed with nothing to show but broken relationships, shattered dreams, and a drained bank account. I wasn’t immune to that. I remember the lies I told my family—the constant reassurances that I had it under control, that I was "just fine." I remember my friends pulling away, one by one, exhausted by my unpredictability, tired of the empty promises I kept making to "get better tomorrow." There were moments when I wanted to believe I could stop, but addiction has a way of pulling you deeper into a cycle of self-destruction and deceit.
One of my greatest regrets is the impact my addiction had on my family. The disappointment in their eyes when I showed up late, or not at all, to family gatherings, the way my promises became meaningless over time because I failed to follow through. It wasn’t just the big things I missed—birthdays, holidays, or important events—it was the everyday moments that slowly disappeared. I became distant, unavailable, a ghost in the lives of people who loved me most and while they tried to reach me, I was too consumed by my addiction to let them in.
I often think about my parents, who stood by me despite the pain I caused them. The sleepless nights they spent worrying about where I was, whether I was alive or dead. The sacrifices they made to support me, even when I wasn’t ready to accept help. The guilt of letting them down is something that lingers in my heart, even now. And then there’s my sister, who looked up to me once, but as time went on, I became a stranger to her. I missed out on watching her grow into the incredible person she is today because I was too wrapped up in my own chaos.
The regret I carry from those days is like a permanent scar—it's a part of me now, and I will never be able to undo the hurt I caused. In my worst moments, those memories threatened to swallow me whole. The guilt, especially about Chris, has been unbearable at times. I let him down, I let myself down, and I let everyone who believed in me down. It feels like there’s a relentless voice in my head, constantly replaying my failures, highlighting every missed chance to turn things around, and reminding me of the people I’ve hurt along the way.
There’s a specific type of loneliness that comes from pushing people away, from shutting yourself off from those who love you most because you are too ashamed to let them see how far you've fallen. I lived in that loneliness for a long time. Even after getting sober, that sense of regret lingers. It followed me around like a dark cloud, always threatening to pull me back into the abyss.
It wasn’t until my most recent relapse, when I checked myself into Bon Secours Hospital for detox, that I truly began to confront those feelings head-on. I hit rock bottom again, and as much as it hurt, it was also the moment of clarity I needed. I couldn’t run from the past anymore. I had to face it, and that’s when I realized that if I didn’t learn how to live with my regrets, they would destroy me. I had to find a way to move forward—not by forgetting what I had done, but by finding forgiveness and understanding in myself.
In recovery, I’ve learned that regret is part of the healing process. It’s the mind’s way of acknowledging the harm that’s been done, but it’s also a way to grow. Regret can serve as a powerful motivator if you let it. Instead of letting the pain of the past paralyze me, I’ve started using it to drive me forward. Every day, I remind myself that I have the power to change and become someone better. I can’t change what I did during my active addiction, but I can control what I do now. Today I choose to heal. I choose to make amends, not just to the people I hurt but to myself.
One of the hardest steps has been forgiving myself. Self-forgiveness doesn’t come easy, especially when you feel like you don’t deserve it. For a long time, I didn’t think I was worthy of happiness or recovery. I’ve learned that clinging to that belief only keeps you stuck. It’s a form of self-punishment, and it keeps you tethered to the past. In group therapy sessions, I’ve talked about these feelings with others who’ve been in the same place and hearing their stories has helped me realize that I’m not alone. We all carry regrets, but we all have the capacity for change.
Part of my healing has been finding ways to make things right where I can. For my family, it’s about being present again, showing up for them consistently, and proving through my actions that I’m committed to my recovery. For my friends, it’s about rebuilding trust, one step at a time, and owning up to the hurt I caused. As for Chris, I can never bring him back, but I honor his memory by staying sober and continuing to fight this battle for both of us. In my moments of weakness, I think of him, and it gives me strength to keep going. Recovery isn’t a straight line, and neither is working through regret. There are days when the weight of my past feels too heavy to bear. On those days, I allow myself to feel the grief, the sadness, and the pain, but I don’t let it drown me. I remind myself that every day I wake up sober is a victory.
Regret is powerful, but so is hope. I hold onto that now. I’m learning to live in the present, to focus on the person I’m becoming rather than the person I used to be. Yes, I have regrets from my time in active addiction. They will always be a part of my story, but I am more than my mistakes. I am someone who is trying, every single day, to make things right, and that’s what ultimately matters. In this journey, I’m finding peace—not by forgetting the past, but by using it to fuel my future. I am no longer paralyzed by my regrets. Instead, I am learning to rise above them, one day at a time.
And remember, if you’re struggling, or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
