The Power Of Regret

Some say regret is a useless emotion. But what if they're wrong?

I’m standing in line at the bank, waiting to deposit a cheque. The elderly man in front of me, with a full head of neatly parted silver hair, is dressed smartly in a navy three-piece suit, his black leather shoes buffed to a shine. Sheepishly, he approaches the teller.

'I'm hopeless,' he says.

The teller looks blankly back at him. Sighs and waits.

'Sorry to trouble you. But I've locked myself out of my account.'

Another deep sigh from the teller. 'Do you have a card or account number?'

The man looks flustered, shakes his head. 'No, sorry.'

An eye roll from the teller. 'A phone number then?'

The man shuffles, takes a big breath and recites the number aloud twice, loud enough for everyone in line to hear.

The teller tap, tap, taps the keyboard, eyes the man over the screen.
'Oh, right. I see here you're locked out of your account. And the same thing happened last week. Do you remember coming in last Friday? You saw Angela, who unlocked your account for you.'

A long anxious silence. A dejected shake of the head.

'Well then, I can't help you. You'll have to line up over there and wait for someone at the help desk to sort this out for you.'

The man doesn't hear what is said. He doesn't move. The teller jabs a finger at a second line and repeats himself.

The man nods. 'Right, right. I told you I was hopeless.'

As this man gathers what’s left of his dignity and turns away, I try to catch his eye, but he's head down, limping over to join the other line.

I deposit my cheque, remarking to the teller how difficult it must be for people who are not digital natives to adapt to paperless systems. He shrugs, and mumbles something about it being ‘good in a way.’

Passing the silver-haired man on the way out. I hesitate. I want to go to him, put a reassuring hand on his arm and tell him he's not hopeless. I want to say new technology is tricky for many of us, that it’s okay to ask for help. But I don't. I see him shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot at the front desk in those shiny shoes, waiting to be called forward, and I say nothing.

Not a thing.

I simply glide out through the automatic doors into a blinding summer day.

I will regret this thing I did not do, these words I did not say for the rest of that day, and for days to come.

I'm still thinking of that man now, weeks later. His smart dark suit, his slight limp—a hip that's giving him grief, maybe? And his head hung in shame as he passed the line of people like me waiting impatiently to transact.

Some say regret is a useless emotion. After all, what’s the point of dwelling on something after the fact when its too late to change the outcome.

But what if regret is a compass for the heart—a way of understanding what matters to us, and a reminder to be and do better next time?

Image credit Matt McNulty