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“It’s very important for every human being to forgive themselves or themselves, because if you’re going to live, you’re going to make mistakes. It’s inevitable. But when you do that and you see your mistakes, you forgive yourself and say, ‘Well, if only I knew I could have done better.’ ”
I’ve lived long enough to know the difference between a mistake and a tragedy. Some of the things I carry fall in between – things I wish I could start over, things I said or didn’t say, things I didn’t say by mistake, and opportunities I let slip through my fingers. They don’t scream at me every day, but they visit me quietly. The memory of my mistakes is like a second shadow. It’s something that doesn’t leave behind when the light changes.
I’ve done a lot in my life. I created meaningful work, taught students with heart, and showed up for people when it counted. Even though I was clumsy, I loved deeply. I’ve failed too – sometimes badly. And it is more the memory of those failures than the victories that remain.
The woman on the highway, and the other woman I left behind
I remember a woman on the side of a highway in Mexico after our car ran down the road. She touched my forehead and looked at me with deep compassion and mysterious tenderness. I didn’t thank her. I left without saying goodbye and I still think about her. I wonder if she knew how much that moment meant. I wish I could tell her now.
That moment was not isolated. There were many people like her: friends, lovers, colleagues. Some people have been hurt by their silence. I lost because I couldn’t admit I was wrong. I can see now that my pride got in the way. So was fear. There was also a misplaced belief that being smart, bold, or accomplished could compensate for emotional clutter.
It didn’t.
What I thought living meant completely
I experienced it the way Zorba the Greek did and had the pleasure. Taking life completely meant taking everything life had to offer, especially when love and passion came knocking. Zorba said that the worst sin is to reject a woman when she wants you. There’s a strange truth in that, even if it doesn’t fit modern ideas of love and consent and mutuality.
But I also know now. Not every yes leads to peace. Sometimes you jump in and still find yourself alone or embarrassed or someone else’s pain in your hands.
And here’s the truth – I’ve failed at being a Zorba purist.
I missed a lot of messages and opportunities. Not just because of timing or external circumstances, but because of my own blindness. Fear, embarrassment, and a deep lack of confidence were acquired along the way more times than I can count. In that sense, yes, it’s a kind of failure. I didn’t always seize the moment. I didn’t always say yes. Sometimes I saw boats leave without me.
But here’s what I learned: Not getting what you wanted is a blessing. I missed something that may have done more harm than good. And I don’t know for sure, but I’ve come to trust ambiguity.
My appetite for imagined memories – which may go so far – can lead me in unhealthy ways. It’s easy to get lost in nostalgia and get lost in possibilities that never were. But it also became a teacher. I’m learning not to be burdened by those alternate timelines. I’m learning to live here, now, in this life, the real life.
i won’t be a victim
People talk a lot about not being a victim these days. It becomes like a mantra for me. Not in a harsh, self-righteous way, but as a quiet exercise. I don’t want to turn my past into a story where I’m the hero or the helpless. I want to see it clearly.
I struggled in so many ways – emotionally, financially, mentally. I have suffered through losses I had no control over and have helped create several. But I always have to be mindful of my perspective. How I structure my life matters. Am I looking at it through the lens of powerlessness? Or am I just recognizing and owning my part and doing what I can from here?
Finding that balance is not easy. I fall out of it regularly. But I come back to it again and again: I will not be a victim. I have the power to fully but consciously respond.
Learn to live with my mistakes, not my mistakes
Not because I have those memories, but because I have learned that regrets have something to teach me. It’s not just a burden. It’s a mirror. And if I look at it with clear eyes, it shows me who I have become.
I also learned that some mistakes don’t go away. They live in your bones. People say “let go of the past,” and I think that’s a worthy purpose. It is consistent with the four noble truths of Buddhism. Suffering comes from holding on and peace comes from letting go. But maybe some memories are meant to be carried as a reminder, not as a punishment.
I know this a lot, despite my penchant for impostor syndrome, despite whispers that I’m not smart enough, not healed enough, or even worthy of writing this.
I no longer believe that healing means erasing the past. I think it means breathing. Make it soft. Let it speak – not to embarrass you, but to show you where the heart finally opens.
Sometimes I wonder – how did I miss so much?
That doesn’t mean I wasn’t intelligent. I mean I was often distracted. Caught up in my own ego, my longings, my fears. Sometimes I would look back and shake my head, wondering why I had what was right before me. Not just once, but over and over again.
There’s that old saying: Youth is wasted on youth. Maybe there’s a sharp version of that. I now see myself spending more time reacting instead of reacting, chasing instead of listening, trying to prove something instead of just existing.
Still, maybe this is how it works. Maybe we need to go through the valley of error before we can come to meaningful self-awareness. Maybe the errors – the persistent ones, the silent ones, the ones we don’t fully account for – are curriculum.
Still, I have my doubts.
Is mindful growth real? Or are we always half blind and half deaf?
Sometimes I think I have evolved. Other times I find myself repeating the same old patterns in more subtle ways. And yet…there’s something different now. A deeper pause. Longer breath. A willingness to admit what I don’t know and stay in discomfort.
Maybe that’s really what growth looks like. Humility, not certainty.
No, I wasn’t stupid. I was learning. I am not yet.
When the weight is too much
And just when I think I’ve made peace with the past, something happens that shakes me up again.
This morning I learned that a man I have known since high school, an artist and surfer, quiet and soulful, jumped off the cliff of his death.
It was the same place where he first learned to surf, first fell in love with the ocean, and perhaps first became himself. A place filled with memories. And maybe pain. Probably too many.
We weren’t particularly close, but I respected him. his art. His quiet way of being in the world. And now he’s gone.
I won’t pretend not to know what he was carrying. But I know this: memory is powerful. Returning to it can heal us. Sometimes both.
So I write this without judgment. Just sadness. And it reminds us that what we have matters. It’s kindness, and it’s no small thing – to others or to ourselves. Sometimes the strongest thing we can do is stay.
what i know now
So what did I learn?
I learned that kindness outweighs thrills. Its presence is more important than persuasion. That a kindly spoken goodbye is better than a closed door in silence. I’ve learned things that are too late for others to hear, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t say them.
I learned that showing up imperfectly is always better than disappearing.
And I’ve learned that even now, even at this point in my life, I can choose how I react. I can meet the past with compassion. I can see this moment clearly.
To those I left too soon…to those I failed to appreciate, to listen to, to stand up to…that I loved imperfectly, but truly…here is what I can say:
I see it now. I would like to try it more. sorry. I’m still learning.
And I’m still here – trying, still growing and becoming the person I want to be.
And if you are reading this, if you have your own memories, your own regrets, know this: you are not alone. you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to keep showing up. That’s also what I’m trying to do.
About Tony Collins
Tony Collins is a documentary filmmaker, educator, and author whose work explores creativity, caregiving, and personal growth. He is the author of: Windows to the Sea. This is a moving collection of essays about love, loss, and existence. Creative Scholarship – A guide for educators and artists is rethinking how creative work is valued. Tony writes to reflect on what’s important and to help others feel less alone.
