Regret has a way of arriving quietly. It doesn’t burst through the door or announce itself with fanfare. It creeps in slowly—disguised as small reflections, gentle nudges, or the stories we hear from others.
I’ve always been intrigued—and admittedly haunted—by the concept of regret. How do we make decisions today without knowing which ones we’ll carry heavily tomorrow? How do we know if what we’re pouring ourselves into will still matter—or matter as much—ten years from now?
These aren’t easy questions. But a while back, I found myself floating down a river in Patagonia, surrounded by some of the most breathtaking scenery on earth, when one conversation gave me an unexpected moment of clarity.
The trip was a bucket-list fly-fishing adventure—multi-day, remote, and restorative. I was with two close friends, guided by two local experts. Each day, one of us would be paired solo with the lead guide, Pedro, while the other two shared the second boat. Being one-on-one with Pedro wasn’t just great for fishing—it opened a door to thoughtful, deeply personal conversations.
Pedro was in his late fifties. Soft-spoken and introspective, he had that rare ability to slow the pace of a moment just by being in it. Time with him on the river wasn’t just about casting lines—it was about going beneath the surface.
I hadn’t planned to open up. But I was in the midst of navigating a major career decision—considering whether to leave a large organization where I’d held a significant role for a few years. That role had shaped much of my time, energy, and identity. And somewhere between the rhythm of the river and the silence of the mountains, it all came out.
Pedro mostly listened. Then, when I asked how he came to guiding, he shared a story I’ll never forget.
For most of his adult life, Pedro had poured everything into running a large ranch in Argentina. “It was demanding,” he said, “but I believed it was important.” He didn’t speak bitterly. But there was a weight in his voice that lingered.
He told me how, over the years, he had prioritized his work above everything else—believing that success, stability, and providing for his family meant constant motion. But somewhere along the way, the balance tipped too far.
“I missed a lot,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t around. And when I look back now, I see just how much I gave away.”
Pedro had three daughters. With the older two, his presence had been more symbolic than real. “They’re more like acquaintances,” he admitted, his voice catching slightly. “It’s not that I didn’t love them—I just wasn’t there. I was always working, always gone. I thought I had time.”
He paused—not for effect, but because the weight of those words was real. His story wasn’t rehearsed; it was something that had clearly lived inside him for a long time.
“I don’t get those years back,” he said. “That’s what I regret. Not the work. Not the effort. But the imbalance. The missed moments I didn’t even realize were happening.”
With his youngest daughter, he made a change early enough to be more present. He left the ranch. Became a fly-fishing guide. Started showing up in ways he hadn’t before. “That’s a true father-daughter relationship,” he said. “That’s what I hold onto.”
I remember sitting in that boat, looking out at the water, unsure of what to say. What do you say to someone who’s just shared something so deeply human?
But I didn’t need to say anything. I just needed to listen.
That conversation wasn’t the sole reason I eventually made a change—but it was a nudge. A meaningful one. It helped me step outside the momentum I was caught in and ask a hard, honest question: Where is my energy going?
And more importantly: What story am I writing with my time?
The truth is, none of us will get everything right. Life is messy. Priorities shift. Sometimes we’re just doing our best to get through the week. But we owe it to ourselves—and the people we care about—to pause now and then and ask: Is this the story I want to be telling five, ten, twenty years from now?
Because most regrets aren’t about the things we tried and failed. They’re about the connections we neglected, the time we didn’t make, the love we didn’t show because we were too distracted or too busy.
Pedro sadly passed away a few years ago. I never had the chance to fully express how much his honesty and presence meant to me—but I carry deep gratitude for the clarity he helped me find. I have such fond memories of my time with him: his laughter, his calm presence, and his openness to share the wisdom life had taught him in such a meaningful, human way.
His story—and the quiet truth he shared on that river—still echoes in my mind. It nudged me when I needed it most. And it continues to do so, quietly shaping the questions I ask about where my time is going and what truly matters.
Maybe that’s the best any of us can hope for—to share something true enough that it helps someone else pause, reflect, and choose with a little more intention.
See you next week,
Brent, your Rivr Guide
