Drowning in Guilt, Learning to Swim

Learning Not to Live with Guilt

Guilt is sneaky. It shows up in the quiet moments, in the middle of the night, or while you’re making coffee in the morning. It’s not always about huge mistakes or earth-shattering regrets. Sometimes it’s the little things that somehow feel major — like snapping at your dog when you’re overwhelmed or replaying your last conversation with someone you loved and wishing it had been different.

For a long time, I used to dwell. Like sit-in-it-for-days kind of dwell. If I made a mistake or said the wrong thing, I’d replay it on a loop until it drove me crazy. These days, I’m learning to let go. Or at least, I’m trying.

But letting go isn’t easy.

The Everyday Triggers

Let me give you an example. Recently, I had to cancel my mobile hotspot through Verizon. Easy task, right? Wrong. It took me three calls. Three. And at some point in that circus, they shut off my Fios instead. By the second call, I was convinced the person on the other end was messing up (spoiler: she was), and when she refused to transfer me to her supervisor, I lost it.

I hung up fuming. And of course, the guilt crept in right after: Why did you snap like that? Why couldn’t you just breathe through it?

The truth is, I hate doing things twice. If I’ve already explained myself once, why do I have to again? My patience wears thin. The meds I take have done wonders for my temper, but I’m still me. Still human. Still capable of blowing up when I feel like I’m not being heard.

Meanwhile, my brothers? Cool as cucumbers. “Chilling like villains,” as they’d say. They let things roll right off their backs, and I sit here like, MAKE IT MAKE SENSE. Why does everything dig at me deeper than it digs at them?

The Heavy Stuff

Then there are the heavier moments. Like my last conversation with my uncle. We talked about parking spots for the Blackbeard Festival. Parking spots. I was literally in the area and didn’t even stop by.

And then he was gone.

How do you not feel guilty about that? I beat myself up thinking I should have known, should have stopped, should have made time. The truth? None of us knows. None of us has a calendar that tells us when someone’s last day will be. Still, guilt lingers — that voice whispering, you should have done better.

That’s the kind of guilt that sticks. The kind that teaches you lessons you didn’t ask for but probably needed.

What I’m Learning

Here’s what I’ve come to realize:

• We snap, we yell, we lose patience because we care. It’s not because we’re heartless — it’s because we’re overwhelmed, stretched thin, or deeply invested.

• Guilt is often a sign of love. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t feel bad afterward.

• The only way forward is to notice, own it, and do better next time.

So now, I try to channel guilt into growth. If I yelled at my dog, I stop, breathe, and give extra snuggles. If I lost my cool with a customer service rep, I reflect on what pushed me there and how I can handle it differently next time. And if I find myself near family or friends, I make the stop. Because I’ve learned: you just never know when “next time” won’t come.

Moving Forward Without Chains

Guilt doesn’t disappear. It’s part of being human. But it doesn’t have to chain you to the past. Instead, it can guide you into the future.

I don’t want to be the person who’s haunted by “should have’s.” I want to be the person who learns, adjusts, and grows. The person who forgives herself for losing her temper, who laughs about Verizon horror stories later, who honors her uncle’s memory by making different choices today.

It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being better than yesterday.

So, to anyone reading this who carries guilt — whether it’s big or small — I hope you can remind yourself of this too: the past already happened. The only thing you get to change is what you do next. And that’s more than enough.