When Your Mistake Broke More Than Just You
I didn’t just make a small mistake. I messed up badly, in a way that hurt a lot of people, but most of all my family. That fact sits heavy on me every single day. I wake up with it, go to sleep with it, and it follows me in every quiet moment in between. The shame isn’t just a thought; it feels like a living thing inside me, pressing on my chest, making me question who I am and whether I even deserve to be here. And the truth I have to face is brutal. Can it even be called a mistake if I actively chose to do the wrong thing? That hits differently. A mistake is something accidental, something you stumble into. But this was conscious. This was a choice. And owning that choice, fully and without excuses, is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. It’s like staring into a mirror and seeing someone you barely recognise, someone capable of hurting the ones you love the most. I’ve spent so long punishing myself, replaying every detail over and over, wishing I could take it bac...