When Regret Meets Grace
what grief, regret, and love are teaching me in real time
I lost my Uncle Bubby recently.
He was one of the kindest, most loving uncles I could have ever asked for. He loved gardening and often told people that smiling was his superpower. And if you knew him, you knew—that wasn’t just something he said. It was something he lived.
When I found out he was sick, the knots in my stomach refused to go away. And still… I didn’t call.
I was too afraid to hear him sound like anyone other than the man I knew—the man who was full of life, warmth, and joy. So I avoided it. I told myself I would call later and see him during my upcoming visit.
Later never came. And I’ll carry that with me.
I’m sharing this because as a therapist, I sit with people in their grief all the time. I hold space for their regrets, their what-ifs, and their longing to rewrite moments they can’t go back to. I talk often about acceptance—about learning to live alongside the things we cannot change. And now, I’m here. Living it.
In the last few weeks, I’ve had to remind myself that grief isn’t linear. My uncle’s funeral was one of six that I’ve attended in the last five months, and I’ve been carrying the weight of one loss after another. I’m learning that it’s okay when that grief shows up unexpectedly—even if it’s just me crying in the kitchen. That it’s okay to not have the capacity to show up for others—and that sometimes, that means canceling sessions with clients.
I’ve had to accept that strength doesn’t always look like holding things together. Sometimes, it looks like letting things fall apart. And if I’m being honest… I’ve had to come to terms with the reality that the only way forward is through this grief—no matter how badly I want to avoid it.
So, here are a few things I’m learning in real time as I navigate this season:
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What I’m Learning in Real Time
1. Grief doesn’t follow rules—and it doesn’t need your permission to show up.
One moment you’re okay, the next you’re crying over something small that somehow isn’t small at all. I’m learning to stop questioning it. Grief moves how it wants to move. My job isn’t to control it—it’s to make space for it.
2. Regret will try to take center stage—don’t let it be the whole story.
I didn’t make the call. And that truth hurts. But I’m learning that while regret deserves acknowledgment, it doesn’t deserve to define the entire relationship. There was so much love there—so many moments that did happen. I’m holding onto those, too.
3. Avoidance feels easier—but it always comes back.
I avoided calling because I didn’t want to face what was real. And now I’m facing it anyway, just in a different form. I’m learning that leaning in—no matter how uncomfortable—is often the kinder choice in the long run.
4. Your capacity will shift—and that’s okay.
There are days when I feel like myself, and days when even simple things feel heavy. I’ve had to cancel, to rest, to step back. Not because I don’t care—but because honoring my limits is part of caring for myself in this season.
5. Strength isn’t pushing through—it’s allowing yourself to feel.
For a long time, strength looked like holding it together. Now, it looks like crying when I need to, saying “this is hard,” and not rushing myself to be okay.
6. The way we love doesn’t end—it just changes form.
I can’t call him. I can’t hear his voice. But I can carry him forward—in the way I show up, in the way I love people, in the way I choose to smile even when it’s hard. His “superpower” didn’t leave—it lives on in the people who loved him.
7. There is still life beneath what feels damaged.
After my uncle’s funeral, I was given clippings from a plant in his home. I carried them in the car window during my eight-hour drive back—which, in hindsight, wasn’t my best decision. By the time I got home, the leaves had turned completely black from the sun.
I remember staring at them before I cried.
It felt like I had lost something else that mattered—something that still felt connected to him.
With a little help, I trimmed away what was damaged and placed the clippings in water, unsure if they would recover. For a while, nothing changed. But over time, small roots began to form. Not in a dramatic or obvious way. Not in a way that I could see right away. But slowly… and beneath the surface.
And I realized—that’s what grief has felt like.
Loss can leave us feeling altered—like parts of us have been impacted in ways we didn’t choose. There are moments that feel heavy, moments that feel raw, and moments that feel like too much to carry.
It’s easy to assume that something is permanently broken when we can’t immediately see healing. But growth doesn’t always happen where we can see it.
Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes it’s happening even when we don’t feel like anything is changing.
In this season, I am learning that just because something has been damaged doesn’t mean it’s beyond life. Some things are still taking root… even now.
What’s Next
I don’t get to call him. I don’t get to hear his voice or see his smile the way I used to. But I do get to choose what I carry forward.
My uncle used to say that smiling was his superpower. And the more I sit with that, the more I realize—it still is.
So what’s next for me is simple, but not always easy. To keep showing up. To keep loving the people in front of me.
To offer myself the same grace I so easily offer others.
And on the days when grief feels especially heavy… to choose to smile anyway. Not to ignore the pain—but to honor the life, the love, and the moments that made it meaningful.
For me, moving through my grief doesn’t mean leaving people behind. It means carrying pieces of them with us—in the way we live, the way we love, and the way we show up in the world.
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The truth is, there’s no one right way to navigate loss. There’s only your way. Grief may not get easier overnight.
But I am choosing to meet it, moment by moment, with grace in mind.
my sun burnt Pothos clipping
Lessons from Wicked
It All Begins Here
Lately, I’ve noticed the same themes in my work with clients. 2025 was hard—personally, globally, financially, spiritually, and emotionally. In 2026, I continue to hear stories of loss, change, exhaustion, rebuilding, and challenges of just getting through each day.
Seeing Wicked reminded me how important relationships are. I’ve loved the show since Broadway in 2010; its message of friendship is deeply personal to me. I was drawn to being a Social Worker & Therapist by a desire to help those who lack the kind of relationships that Glinda and Elphaba represent—relationships where you are seen clearly and accepted fully. Friendships grounded in truth, forgiveness, and genuine care—where conflict doesn’t end connection, repair is possible, and the relationship remains anchored in what matters most.
Many people cope with strength, self-reliance, and resilience—important traits—but we also need true connection.
Having even one place where you don’t have to carry everything alone can support healing, growth, and a sense of steadiness through life’s harder seasons. Thriving doesn't mean doing it alone; it often grows when we let ourselves be known and supported by others. Therapy can offer that kind of safe, contained connection—a space where trust is built slowly, boundaries are clear, and you are met without judgment. Over time, therapy can help people recognize what healthy, reciprocal relationships— rooted in mutual care, honesty, and repair— feel like. Therapy can also help to strengthen individuals’ ability to seek and sustain these relationships beyond the therapy room.
Glinda and Elphaba’s story is more than a fictional bond—it’s a reminder of how deeply we all need safe connection, especially during challenging times. As someone who has performed strength for most of my life, I am learning that we are shaped not only by our strength, but by the places where we are allowed to be seen and supported.
Where could you practice being held, instead of always holding everything together?
When life feels heavy, the presence—or absence—of meaningful connection becomes even more noticeable. As a therapist, I’ve watched people cling to their support systems, redefine relationships, set long-avoided boundaries, grieve friendships that changed, and lean into the people who stayed. These conversations have taught me that friendship and healing share the same roots: being seen, being supported, and being allowed to grow at your own pace.
Here are a few other takeaways:
Hard seasons reveal who is steady. When the world shakes, some people fall away—but others step closer.
Healing isn’t possible in isolation. Even the most independent among us need one safe connection—someone who holds space for our truth.
Repair is part of real relationship. 2025 strained many bonds, and it also created opportunities for honesty, forgiveness, and rebuilding.
Connection looks different for everyone. Some people crave deep friendship. Others prefer quiet companionship, small circles, or intentional solitude. All of these are valid.
🌱 For Those Without a Glinda-and-Elphaba Friendship
I want to acknowledge something gently but directly: not everyone has a friendship like Glinda and Elphaba, and not everyone is looking for one.
You might be walking through life with a small support system, no support system, or simply a preference for independence. You might be recovering from relational hurt or learning to trust again. You might be emotionally tired in ways you haven’t told anyone.
Some people heal in community.
Some heal in the quiet.
Some heal with one safe person.
Some heal with boundaries, rest, or temporary solitude.
Whatever path you are on, your path is just as meaningful, and your season is just as valid.