The Day I Felt Guilty

Life is full of ups and downs—friendships, relationships, mistakes. And through all of it, I had never truly felt guilt in its deepest form. Like most people, I apologized when I was wrong, and moved on. Some mistakes fade with time, others become lessons. But then, there are mistakes that don’t leave you—they stay with you, remind you, shape you.

I’ve always lived a life of routine. Every day feels similar, predictable even. But beneath that routine lies a cycle—one I haven’t been able to break. I keep making the same kind of mistake, again and again. Not intentionally. Never with bad intentions. I’ve always wanted to make others happy, to bring smiles, never tears. But sometimes, even the kindest intentions can lead to unintended pain.

Even the best of us have flaws, and I know mine. I try to fix them—every day, every hour, every second. Still, I fail. My thoughts run wild: You’re wrong. You need to change. Fix this before it’s too late. I try. And then I fail again. I believe our emotions, our hormones, our expectations—they all play a part in our behavior. Even happiness, the dopamine rush, can mislead you.

It was an ordinary day, like any other—or so I thought. I was meeting a friend for the first time. I was excited. My mind was buzzing, dopamine doing its usual tricks. We talked, laughed, shared stories. We went to a restaurant, enjoyed a good meal. Everything felt normal. Perfect, even. I never imagined that I was making a mistake—a mistake that would put friendship at risk.

At first, I didn’t even realize it. I didn’t think I had done anything wrong. But I had—and it wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t the exact same mistake, but the pattern was repeating itself. Once again, I had hurt someone—not physically, not intentionally, but emotionally. And this time, I had broken something sacred: trust.

Building trust is one of the hardest things in the world. It takes time, effort, and sincerity. But breaking it? That takes just one moment, one poor choice, one careless action. And that’s what I had done. It may have seemed like a small slip to me, but to someone who trusted me deeply, it was painful and hard to digest. They didn’t expect betrayal—not from me.

I sat with that realization, asking myself: Why do I hurt people who care about me? Why do I keep doing this? I had no answers. Just guilt. Heavy and real. Not all relationships are romantic, but that doesn’t make them any less fragile or important. This wasn’t love, but it was connection. And I had fractured it.

Since then, I’ve thought a lot about trust—what it means, how rare it is, and how easy it is to damage. I’ve always tried to be the "good guy." I’ve tried to do the right thing. But intentions don’t erase outcomes. I’m not perfect. No one is. But the least I can do is try—try harder to be better, to not make the same mistakes.

That single day became many things: a good day, a terrible day, and—more than anything else—the day that woke me up. It was the day I truly felt guilt. Not just regret or embarrassment, but the kind of guilt that forces you to stop, reflect, and reckon with who you are.

I looked at myself that night and didn’t like what I saw. But instead of turning away, I decided to face it. I accepted that I had hurt someone. I accepted that I had repeated a mistake I should’ve learned from. And most importantly, I accepted that healing—both for them and for me—starts with accountability.

That day didn’t break me. It built me.

I don’t know if I can ever fully undo the hurt. Maybe trust once broken doesn’t come back the same. But I do know that guilt—when faced honestly—can become a turning point. It can lead you back to the right path.

I may not be perfect, but I can be better. And that journey started the day I felt guilty.

It’s no longer just a memory. It’s a reminder, a lesson, and a promise to myself. It was the day I felt real guilt. The day I saw my reflection and didn’t like what I saw. It was the day I hated myself—but also the day I started to repair myself. I don't know if I’ll ever be perfect, but I know this: that day changed me.

And I’ll carry it with me, always.

BR17