A few mornings ago my little boy asked me, “Táto, are you afraid of anything?” Perplexed, although trying not to look as so, I scratched my head and did my best dad-is-weird-Charlie-Chaplin schtick—normally a daily routine saved for laughs with my little one. But this time, it was to buy time—to ponder the nuance of such a delicate and unanticipated question. It only took seconds before my mind went into overdrive. Life was flashing before my eyes as I scurried through the years in search for a nugget of wisdom to impart to my inquisitive boy. But, other than the trite reinforcement of false bravado, machismo didn’t quite do it for me; there was nothing there, nothing profound anyway—it was just another moment to regret.
And regrets—not to outdo Frank Sinatra, but I have more than just a few.
I fear regret. In fact, I regret I chose to write about regret. But it was the only fear that troubled me after my conversation with my son; it propelled me into recounting the mistakes I’ve made, which I’ve done countless time but never recognized as a serious phobia.
Nothing scares me more than thinking of my final moment and not have done the things that would’ve given me fulfillment. I fear regret because I have left so much of my life, and the world, unexplored; there’s a sense of anxiety that overwhelms me when I think about the things I didn’t do or should have done differently. I wanted to do so much—and be everywhere. But I didn’t, haven’t, and I have left myself unfulfilled.
This fear is not something I would have shared with my little boy. His question was not an easy one to process, much less make him understand. It was a difficult question to process when confronted with unexpected hang-ups either forgotten or voluntarily compartmentalized in some dark recess of the mind. Now, talk about fear.
I have often made the wrong choice contrary to good instincts.
These are some of my sad but sobering omissions:
- I regret not being more of a family man contrary to what my wife’s kindness says.
- I regret not spending enough quality time with my kids.
- Not playing with my dogs more.
- I regret all the bad decisions I have made with money.
- I have left friendships to wither away for no reason.
- But, the regret that really hurts was not being there for my grandmother’s funeral; she was a wonderful woman.
What if my kids couldn’t be there for mine? It was a bad choice, which brought my mortality into focus and made my regrets just that more meaningful.
All of my regrets are not because I have been unlucky; the sobering fact is that I’ve made the wrong decisions—most times aware of the worse outcomes.
“Real regrets are about bad choices. Not bad things happening to you, or the way that life has punched you in the face: regret is a deep sorrow about something you did or something you failed to do. It’s anger at yourself for having enough information to have made the right decision, but making the wrong one—i.e. it’s about self-blame.”
And being a man of little faith also raises questions about my salvation: mainly, should I be punished for letting all other regrets overshadow the regret of not having more faith?
Looking for some meaning, I was led to a passage in the bible in 2 Corinthians 7:10: “Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death.” I feel conflicted after reading it, not because of the sins I have committed ignoring right or wrong, but because the anxiety I feel is because I have sinned against me. I have robbed my soul of the imagination and creativity I was bestowed upon at birth. We are capable of so much that the last thing we should have to deal with on our deathbed is regret. But I am because my worldly sorrows outweigh my Godly sorrow.
Do I regret not having more faith? Yes. Should I be conflicted that it’s a matter of salvation? I don’t think so. My sins are not against humanity; I have sinned against my humanity. But, I feel the weight of my burden somehow is against Providence. I mean, “Worldly sorrow brings death.” I interpret this to mean that I chose to burden myself over worldly issues over the divine. It is more to fear.
Oh, why couldn’t this have been something as corporeal as my Coulrophobia, my fear of clowns? (Thank you, Mr. Stephen King).
It’s not that I think I can’t salvage a few regrets, or that I really need to; I have a wonderful wife and two good boys. My life is good. It’s just that I have just left so much on the table—which is just as important to my existence as a spiritual being. I suppose it’s this innate selfishness in all of us that serves our dreams and hopes and compels us to do all we can to create. And if we don’t, we aren’t.
Sometimes when I look at photos of a young man I believe is me, I can’t help but wonder how volatile life is. What must have been going on in my head then? I wish I could go back knowing what I know now and relieve the burden of that young man from the heartaches—but I guess it wouldn’t be life if we had that ability. However, if I were granted a choice of wishes, there is no wish I would ask for that would not start with going back and changing some mistakes I’ve made. I wouldn’t change them all, but I would make changes.
Some fathers may choose the moment to boost the yet undeveloped bravado in the little one by claiming he is not afraid of anything. Or just inflate his own. Me, I am the least macho man behind a stern facade. And as much as I would love to have my little boy look at me with such awe of invincibility, I am neither a buttress or the stalwart person to come running to when there is a roach in the living room. I would rather tell him I fear—a lot! Am I wrong? Or is salvation the sum of fewer regrets?
Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash
