People flee from the word regret, as if it is some dirty word that shouldn’t be spoken. As if by admitting it, you are condemning yourself to a lifetime of self-punishment and pain. We can feel all the other marvelous and ugly emotions that come with life. We allow ourselves to embrace the happy, to sit in the anger, to feel sad, scared, lost, excited, joyful, anxious… but never regret.

My Dad died on July 3rd, 2022, after battling early-onset Alzheimer’s and depression. He was an elementary school gym teacher for 25 years, a lover of all animals big or small, and most importantly, a father, son, and brother. Nothing prepared me, or my dad for that matter, for how to face the fact that your life may not be as long or as full as you had hoped.

Some days were good, my dad would greet me with a smile that was becoming less and less familiar. On good days, my dad was there, present – we could talk for hours. Other days though, were much darker. There is no correct way for a son to tell his father to shower or get out of the house and try to experience life for the fifth day in a row. If there is, I certainly never found it. I would scream at him, give him the silent treatment, call him lazy. I regret that. I was 26 years old and trying to get myself through school while living on my own, all while trying my best to keep my dad afloat. It took me a long time to come to the realization that I had no idea what I was doing.

I didn’t react well a lot of the time to my dad’s illness and eventual death. After he died, I felt a flood of emotions. I was lonely, I was angry, and I was so, so tired. They all covered up a crucial component of my grieving: regret. Only by going through the process of mourning did I understand that regret is normal. It shouldn’t be cast off to the depths of our minds or placed in a container all alone. Rather, we need to restructure our thoughts on what it means to regret something. It means we cared, many times it means we attempted, and most importantly, it means we loved.

My dad absolutely loved art. The small picture of the howling wolf was done by my dad when he was 19 years old. It is one of the only original pieces of artwork that I have of his. The other four showcase my personal learning and grieving process. They signify how I gained greater understanding of what it means to love by way of compassion, anger, and sadness.