I'm 70 and the most important thing I've learned is that the people who tell you they have no regrets are either lying or haven't been paying attention

The other morning, while sorting through boxes in my attic, I found a letter I'd written to myself at 30.

Reading it made me wince.

Not because of the terrible handwriting or the naive optimism, but because of one line: "At least I have no regrets."

What absolute nonsense.

I had plenty of regrets even then.

I just hadn't developed the courage to look at them honestly.

Now, at 70, when someone tells me they have no regrets, I know one of two things is true: they're either deeply uncomfortable with vulnerability, or they've sleepwalked through their own life.

Because if you've truly lived, if you've taken risks and loved deeply and made choices that mattered, you've absolutely gotten some things wrong.

And those wrong turns?

They deserve to be acknowledged, not swept under some toxic positivity rug.

The weight of pretending everything was meant to be

Have you ever noticed how "no regrets" has become this badge of honor?

As if admitting you'd do something differently somehow diminishes who you are today.

But here's what I've learned: denying our regrets is like trying to read a book with half the pages torn out.

You might get the general plot, but you're missing the parts that give the story depth.

When my first husband walked out, leaving me with two toddlers, I told everyone I had no regrets about marrying young.

I was 28, desperately trying to hold it together, and admitting regret felt like admitting failure.

But of course I had regrets.

I regretted not seeing the signs earlier.

I regretted not having a backup plan.

I regretted marrying at 22 when I barely knew who I was, let alone who he was.

These weren't character flaws; they were human responses to a painful situation.

The real growth didn't come from pretending those feelings didn't exist.

It came from sitting with them, understanding them, and learning what they could teach me about making better choices going forward.

When protecting our children becomes hurting them

One of my deepest regrets involves my eldest son.

After the divorce, in my desperate attempt to keep our little family functioning, I started referring to him as "the man of the house."

He was eight years old. Eight.

What was I thinking?

I was thinking I needed help, and he was eager to give it.

I was thinking it would make him feel important and valued.

I was thinking about survival, not about the weight I was placing on those small shoulders.

Years later, when he was struggling in his own marriage, he told me he'd never learned how to just be vulnerable because he'd spent his childhood trying to be strong for me.

That conversation broke something open in me.

All those years of telling myself I'd done the best I could with what I had suddenly felt hollow.

Yes, I'd done my best, but my best had still caused harm.

Both things could be true.

This is what people who claim no regrets don't understand: acknowledging where we've caused pain, even unintentionally, doesn't erase the good we've done.

It makes us more complete humans, capable of real growth and genuine apology.

Pride, poverty, and the regret of waiting too long

For two years after my divorce, I qualified for food stamps.

For six months of those two years, I didn't use them.

Why? Pride. Stupid, costly pride that meant watering down milk and pretending to my kids that I just wasn't hungry at dinner.

When I finally walked into that office and filled out the paperwork, hands shaking with shame, the woman behind the desk said something I'll never forget: "Honey, feeding your babies isn't charity. It's what a good mother does."

I regret those six months intensely.

Not because using food stamps was some moral failing I should have avoided, but because my pride literally took food from my children's mouths.

When people say they have no regrets, I wonder what unnecessary suffering they've caused themselves and others in the name of maintaining that fiction.

The difference between regret and rumination

Now, let me be clear about something.

Living with regret doesn't mean living in regret.

There's a difference between acknowledging our mistakes and drowning in them.

I think of regret like salt in cooking.

Too little and life lacks flavor and depth.

Too much and it becomes inedible.

The key is finding the balance.

Healthy regret asks: What can I learn from this? How can I do better?

It's active, not passive.

It moves us forward, not backward.

When I think about my failed first marriage, I don't spend hours reliving the pain.

Instead, I recognize patterns that helped me choose better in my second marriage.

When I remember putting too much pressure on my son, it reminds me to really see my grandchildren as children, not miniature adults.

Why honesty about regret matters as we age

As I've gotten older, I've noticed something interesting.

The people who insist they have no regrets often seem the most rigid, the least able to adapt to change or loss.

They've built their identity on this idea of a perfectly orchestrated life, and when reality inevitably proves otherwise, they crumble.

Meanwhile, those of us who've made peace with our mistakes seem to bend without breaking when life throws its inevitable curveballs.

There's also something profoundly lonely about maintaining the "no regrets" facade.

Real connection comes from shared vulnerability, from those moments when someone says, "I really messed that up," and you can respond with, "Me too."

Some of my deepest friendships have been forged in the honest acknowledgment of our very human failures.

Final thoughts

At 70, I've accumulated quite a collection of regrets, from the profound to the trivial.

I regret harsh words spoken in anger, opportunities not taken, and that perm I got in 1987.

But more than any specific regret, I would regret not learning from them.

Our mistakes, acknowledged and examined, become our teachers.

They soften our judgment of others and deepen our capacity for compassion.

So when someone tells me they have no regrets, I don't argue.

I simply think of all they're missing: the growth that comes from honest self-reflection, the connections born from shared vulnerability, and the wisdom that only comes from admitting we don't always get it right.

Living without regrets isn't living fully.

It's performing life rather than experiencing it.

And at 70, I can tell you with certainty: the performance isn't worth the price of admission.