I Am Not Lot’s Wife

I do not understand regret. I do not. What does it achieve? A momentary indulgence in what could have been? A desperate grasp at a past that has already folded into itself? What is the point? I do not regret because I do not believe in the foolishness of victimhood. And regret — regret is the ugliest kind of victimhood, the kind that convinces you that you were but a pawn in life’s grand game, that you were used, that you were swindled by fate. It is a sentiment that disgusts me, an emotion so beneath me that I refuse to carry it. Because I am not Lot’s wife.

And yet, how telling that we do not know her name. That history did not deem her worthy of individual identity, only as an extension of the man she followed. And why? Because she looked back. Because she could not detach herself from what was already gone. But what was she hoping to see? A city reduced to ashes? The remnants of a life that could no longer be salvaged? Was it grief? Was it longing? Or was it simply the inability to let go? And is that not what regret is — an attachment to what has already been destroyed? A refusal to accept that what has burned will never be rebuilt?

I understand why most men regret. I do. And I do not mock them for it. It is not weakness; it is simply the nature of those who have been taught that life is a ledger, a book of gains and losses, where every wrong decision is a debt to be paid in remorse. I understand it because most men live under the weight of what they could have been. They mourn the roads not taken, the words not spoken, the love they did not fight for, the dreams they abandoned for the comfort of certainty. Regret is their reckoning with themselves, their futile attempt at making peace with the past by reliving it in their minds.

But here is the thing: regret is not always just about what was lost. It is also about what remains. Most men regret not only because they missed an opportunity but because they must now live with what that loss has made of them. A man who betrays a good woman may not only regret losing her but regret the kind of man he became in the process. A father who abandoned his child may not only regret the years he lost but regret what that absence shaped him into — a ghost in his own child’s life. In this way, regret is not just a longing for the past but a condemnation of the present. And that is why I do not do it. Because my present is my responsibility. Whatever has shaped me, whatever has scarred me, whatever life has done to me — I take it, I own it, and I walk forward.

Because I have made peace with the truth that life is not a ledger; it is a river, and it only flows in one direction. I do not wade against the current. I do not sit by the shore lamenting the water that has passed me by. I let it go. Because what else is there to do? Drown in sorrow over what cannot be undone? That is a fool’s indulgence. And I am no fool.

Yesterday, I made a call I had been dreading to make. A love interest. Someone who, in another world, in another time, could have been something. Or perhaps not. But life is strange, and sometimes, when the weight of existence bears down on you, when your body is tight with the strain of holding everything in, you reach for something — someone — that feels like reprieve. I called her. Not for love, not for declarations, not for the sweet delusions that romance often births. No. I called her because I needed something to anchor me, because I wanted to share something — an epiphany, a realization, a moment of truth I had arrived at in the solitude of my own mind. And just as the words began to take form, just as the meaning of it all started to spill from me, she cut me off. “I’ll call you back,” she said.

And when she did, she never asked about it. Never acknowledged it. The moment had passed. The words had dissolved.

And do I regret calling her? No. Because what is there to regret? It is a lesson, not a tragedy. This is life: you extend yourself, you give, you hope, and sometimes — most times — you are met with silence, with indifference, with a casual dismissal that reminds you that not everyone exists in the same depth as you do. But even that is a lesson. And I take my lessons as they come. Without bitterness. Without mourning. Without regret.

But I am not untouched. To live without regret does not mean I do not feel. I still remember. I still hurt. But I do not allow it to stop me. There is a quiet, subdued grief in simply accepting things as they are. The kind of grief that does not wail or beg or demand answers. It simply is. And perhaps that is what people mistake for regret. But I know better.

Because regret is also a myth of control. A belief that we could have done something different if only we had been wiser, braver, more aware. But could we? Or were we merely acting as we were conditioned to, as we knew how, in that moment? Is regret even rational? Or is it merely the arrogance of hindsight, the foolish belief that we were ever in control to begin with?

And if regret is a myth, then so is its necessity. Not everyone even has the luxury to regret. Some people’s lives have been so relentless that they have only ever had one choice — to survive. For them, regret is an indulgence they cannot afford. And even for those who do, I wonder: what is its function? Is it not just an endless loop, a repetition of what cannot be undone?

Life is forward. Always forward. I do not look back because I do not believe in ghosts, and regret is the ghost of things that cannot be undone. I would rather be a man who loses and learns than a man who mourns the past. Because to mourn is to halt, to regret is to linger, and I — who must keep moving, who must make something of myself, who must name myself — I do not stop. I do not turn back. I am not Lot’s wife.