What if we make the wrong decision?

Living with the fear of regret and finding the courage to explore it

The beautiful Tresco, Isles of Scilly

Over the Easter holidays we were lucky enough to go away to The Isles of Scilly, an archipelago a few miles off the coast of Cornwall. It’s somewhere we have been many times as a family, and anyone else who has visited will understand the appeal of returning again and again. It’s like nowhere else I have ever been - white sand, crystal clear sea, with turquoise swirls of water that are so inviting, even on the coldest of days.

There are many things I love about going on holiday to the same place. The main one is familiarity: We know the accommodation, we know where we will buy food, we know vaguely what we will do each day. Therefore, as soon as our bags hit the floor of the cottage, we can relax.

This comfort and ease is priceless, which is why we have been back so many times.

Something else that I’ve found comes with this routine is the capacity to pause and notice the similarities and differences since the last time you visited. Externally and internally. The view is both consistent and ever changing. We know what we will see, but the weather, tides and seasons will add unique perspectives that never fail to elicit awe. The time of year that we visit will determine which flowers are in bloom and the likelihood of spotting seals bobbing around in the waves. We can see how our daughter has grown by her ability to walk longer distances and her interest in different activities.

And I can feel the shifting nature of my grief.

I have written before about starting our journey of acceptance of being a one (live) child family on this exact island. (You can read the full post here).

By this time, we had been living in this torturous limbo for four years. Some other people had popped out two more babies within this timeframe. And yet here we were, deliberating and waiting for the thing that would help us to just know what the right decision was.

But that didn’t happen.

Then one day, on a beautiful walk on holiday to a familiar place we have visited many times, we realised - it wasn’t that we didn’t want it. Or that we wouldn’t cope if it happened.

It’s just that too much had happened over too long a period of time.

And this has become our mantra. Yes, we could have explored options. Yes, we could have tried. But every single option would come at a cost. Financially. Emotionally. Practically. And maybe in a different time, in different circumstances it would have been okay. But that was not our reality.

There was a moment, on the ascent to probably the most beautiful vantage point at the north of the island (in my opinion), that I could feel the weight of the decision we seemingly couldn’t make literally lift from my shoulders. The state of freeze that we had been stuck within for years began to thaw, melting to reveal a realisation that it would be possible to create a beautiful life. A life that was different to how we imagined, but a beautiful one nonetheless.

One of my favourite places to sit and think

Now every time I walk that same path, I check in with myself. How do I feel this time? The same? Better? Worse? Am I moving in the trajectory I ‘should’, or if not, at least showing signs that I will? And what if I’m not? What if I am faced with the reality that we made the ‘wrong’ decision and that instead of greater peace, I will be floored by the unbearable weight of regret?

It’s like a scab, enticing me to pick gently at the edges. I am pulled by the irresistible desire to peek at the skin underneath, unsure as to whether it will be pink, shiny and paper thin, still early in the healing process and not quite ready to lose its protective cover. Or whether it will instead be robust. Thickened. Different from before, tougher and discoloured compared to the skin surrounding it. A visual prompt of our story, a mark of what we have been through and what we have survived.

Or worse, a raw gaping wound that has been festering under the surface, going deeper and causing further damage with me completely unaware.

I want to know. And I don’t.

I walk, I ascend, I navigate the uneven ground that is becoming increasingly familiar. I remember the first time we were here, the next and the last. I notice my feet, my legs, the ground and the well-worn steps trodden by many people navigating their own paths that I know nothing of.

I look up as we arrive and I exhale.

There it is.

Here I am.

The bench

I feel different. It is subtle but has clarity. Slivers of light that carry with them joy, relief and peace. We are not just okay, we are happy.

Next to them are also areas of dark. Of grey matter that twists and folds, with areas that cannot be seen easily. There is scar tissue that shows what it took to get here. It is gnarly in parts. Unsightly. But I see it because of the light. It casts shadows into the crevices of what it took, what it still takes, to be here. To show up and to keep looking for the light. To create it.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be. But this is how it is. It is dark and it is luminous. And we have worked hard to make it so.

It is a realisation that acceptance isn’t about knowing without doubt that you made the right decision – it is realising that there is wonder on the other side of whatever decision you make. That it is possible to see the positives and really, truly be living them. The unknown of what other choices, other paths, would have held in store will forever remain. The could haves and the what ifs continue to hold confusion and sadness. They are alternate realities that I sometimes allow myself to imagine, but I do not linger for long, for fear that I will find it too hard to return.

Coming back to this place is a way of marking off a unit of progress that cannot be coherently or accurately measured. This unit of change is unscientific and prone to misinterpretation. Influenced by extraneous factors that I cannot control for. And yet, it feels helpful. Meaningful. It is the lines drawn crudely and lovingly on the wall measuring a child’s height year after year. The messages written on bare plaster, hidden under wallpaper and discovered only when you peel the strips away again.

Always there but rarely seen.

Finding peace takes time and patience and making active choices again and again. Decisions to move towards the warm glow of hope and joy and allowing yourself to sometimes explore the inky shadows.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

This work is never over. Grief is never complete. But you have to take time to stop and look at the life you are living in the here and now. The life that is made up of moments. Of shards. And of how you have weaved something intricate and captivating from these. It wasn’t how you imagined, but it can be delightful in this moment. And hopefully many more moments to come.

Michelle x

Treasures from the beach