The Things I Can’t Undo

 I Did That

There are things I have done in my life that I don't talk about.

Not because I don't remember them.

I do.

I remember the people.

I remember the moments.

I remember the lies, the truth that came too late, the things I should have said and didn't, and the things I said or did that I wish I could pull back from the universe and swallow whole.

I remember the look on someone's face when they realised I wasn't who they thought I was.

But perhaps the hardest thing to remember...

is myself.

Because sometimes the person you have the hardest time forgiving isn't the person who hurt you.

It's you.

I've spent a lot of time learning that accountability and self-destruction are not the same thing.

That admitting you were wrong doesn't mean you have to spend the rest of your life believing you are wrong.

There are things I did that I cannot undo.

There are apologies that cannot return time.

There are people I loved and still managed to hurt.

There are people who loved me in ways I wasn't mature enough, healed enough, or honest enough to receive.

And I know that now.

I didn't always.

Maybe that's what growing up really is sometimes...

Looking back at an older version of yourself and finally having the courage to say:

I did that.

Not they made me.

Not I had no choice.

Not it just happened.

I did that.

There is something terrifying about taking ownership of your own mistakes without finding somewhere else to put the blame.

Because the truth doesn't always make you feel better.

Sometimes it makes you sit with yourself.

And sit.

And sit.

Until you finally understand that regret was never supposed to become your permanent address.

I've had to learn to look at the woman I was without making excuses for her.

To understand her without absolving her.

To acknowledge what she did without turning her into nothing more than what she did.

Because yes...

I have been the villain in somebody else's story.

And that's a difficult thing to admit when you've spent so much of your life trying to be good.

But perhaps that's where real change begins.

Not when you convince yourself that you were right.

Not when you rewrite the story until nobody is guilty.

But when you can finally say,

I was wrong.

And mean it.

I've learned that regret is useless if it doesn't become wisdom.

If the only thing I take from hurting someone is the pain of knowing I hurt them, then what exactly have I learned?

So I'm learning.

Slowly.

Uncomfortably.

Sometimes painfully.

I'm learning that forgiveness isn't always something another person can give you.

Sometimes you have to learn how to sit across from the worst version of yourself and stop looking away.

Not to excuse her.

Not to pretend she didn't cause damage.

But to tell her:

I see what you did.

I know what it cost.

And I'm still going to teach you how to become better.

There are people from my past whose names still carry weight.

People I loved.

People who loved me.

People I lost because of things I did.

And no, I don't believe every door should be reopened simply because I finally understand why it closed.

Some people have moved on.

Some have healed.

Some have built lives that no longer have room for me.

And maybe loving them now means leaving their peace exactly where it is.

But I still believe in second chances.

Not necessarily second chances with people.

Sometimes life doesn't give you those.

I'm talking about second chances at good things.

Peace.

Love.

Purpose.

Softness.

Joy.

A home within yourself.

A version of you that doesn't have to spend every good moment waiting for punishment because you remember who you used to be.

Because that's another thing guilt does.

It convinces you that good things belong to better people.

That because you ruined something beautiful once, you no longer deserve anything beautiful again.

And I've believed that more times than I'd like to admit.

Maybe that's why some good things scare me.

Maybe part of me is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Waiting for life to remind me that I have already had my chances.

But what if that's not how life works?

What if making terrible choices doesn't mean you're disqualified from ever making beautiful ones?

What if accountability isn't a life sentence?

What if the point of knowing better is actually...

doing better?

I don't want to forget the things I've done.

I don't want to romanticise them.

I don't want to erase the people I hurt just so I can feel better about myself.

I want to remember.

I want the memory to make me wiser, not smaller.

I want the woman I am becoming to be able to look back at the woman I was and say,

"You should have done better."

And then...

"Now do better."

Maybe that's enough.

Maybe redemption doesn't always arrive dramatically.

Maybe sometimes it looks like choosing honesty when a lie would be easier.

Choosing restraint when selfishness feels good.

Choosing to walk away when you know staying would only cause more damage.

Choosing to love people without possessing them.

Choosing to forgive yourself without forgetting what you learned.

And maybe, someday...

when something good finds me again,

I won't immediately wonder when I'm going to lose it.

Maybe I'll let myself have it.

Maybe I'll stop believing that because I once ruined something beautiful, I am destined to ruin everything beautiful that comes after it.

Maybe I'll finally understand that I am not the worst thing I've ever done.

I am also the woman who learned from it.

The woman who carries the truth.

The woman who knows what it means to lose.

The woman who is still trying.

And perhaps that's the second chance I've been looking for all along.

Not a second chance to become the woman I was.

But a second chance to become the woman I could have been...

if I had known then what I know now.

And maybe...

just maybe...

life still has some good things left for me.

I hope it does.

I'm learning to hope without feeling like I'm asking for too much.

Because I've made mistakes.

I've lost people.

I've hurt people.

I've been hurt.

I did that.

But I'm still here.

And maybe being still here means the story isn't finished yet.

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We can't turn the hands of time buh surely we can work on ourselves, do better and maybe hope.