Have Regrets? Get Over it
Heidi K. Isern

Thank you, Heidi.

I am compelled to write after I read a number of your articles — the first was promoted by Medium on Facebook: “Why You Cannot Find ‘The One’ ”

So, on a sleepless night in the East, I woke up like most nights at 3am. I made the mistake of checking my phone — a bad habit that I must change according to at least a dozen articles on Medium — if I want to be successful.

Election news. I’m addicted. I read too much. I flip through CNN, Twitter, FB.

A message on a dating app that seems suspect - like a catfish with old filtered photos. I search…

and I search.

And I lose sleep.

I check Facebook again, and I read an hour's worth of your articles. I lose sleep, but I gain perspective.

I regret much in my 42 years. Letting go is never easy.

I feel like a sad Gatsby-esque figure that failed without ever making millions as a bootlegger (or on a dotcom IPO). Yes, there was a Daisy — or two. The ideals. The dreams. The regrets.

I understood “Rich girls don’t marry poor boys.”

And I know we “can’t repeat the past”; however, nostalgia creeps cruelly in the wee hours. The green light is out. We wake to what is.

Yet after reading your article, I still regret never making it to Burning Man. Maybe…someday.

Meanwhile, my five year old son Henry breathes heavily in bed next to me. I should be sleeping, but this is when I can write. When the muse strikes and the world is still.

Soon, he will wake, always too early on mornings I write, and say, “Papa, Lego. Play Lego.” I will oblige only after my morning hug.

He then bolts for the bathroom, and strips off his pajamas and the pull-ups that he wears as a precautionary measure.

Henry hollers to follow him downstairs. I feel bad for his mother, the night owl that works late, as she rightfully takes advantage of my visits to sleep in. Our situation is a longer story.

Henry’s unashamed nakedness makes me laugh. At times, I have to beg him to wear clothes. He just laughs.

When I read of your travels and adventures, I live vicariously. Growing up in Ohio, I’ve always read to travel places. Some day…

Right now, indeed, I must “be here now.” No more searching.

Henry sighs heavily. And snores.

No regrets.

Letting go. Over it.

Back to sleep for a bit.

Please keep writing, Heidi.

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