There comes a moment — not always loud, not always announced — when life quietly holds up a mirror. Not to show your face, but your choices.
You pause.
You see not just the roads you’ve taken, but the ones you walked away from.
The words left unsaid.
The calls never made.
The dreams once burning bright — now reduced to a flicker in some forgotten corner of your heart.
And in that moment, the question is no longer “What did I do wrong?”
But rather, “What can I still make right?”
Living regret-free is not about being flawless.
It isn’t about always knowing the answers, or walking a perfect path.
It’s about finding the courage to return to your life — fully.
To gather the parts of yourself you left behind.
To speak what matters.
To feel what’s true.
To love. To forgive. Not someday. But now.
This chapter is not about the regrets I avoided.
It’s about the ones I met along the way — and how they taught me to live better, while I still can.
About four months ago, a dear friend from my 1984 batch of Nehru Homeopathic Medical College, Delhi (NHMC) shared a few inspiring quotes. They weren’t dramatic or preachy — just quietly stirring. Gentle reminders of things we often forget while rushing through life.
Curious, I asked where they were from. That’s when I first heard the title: “The Top Five Regrets of the Dying.”
Something in the name struck a chord.
Without hesitation, I ordered the book from Amazon. It arrived the very next day — as if the universe had cleared its queue and placed this delivery at the top. No excuses. No delays.
I began reading almost immediately. But like many things that truly matter, it had to compete with daily life — clinic hours, patient needs, family priorities, and the rhythm of responsibility. The book kept finding its way to my bedside, only to wait… patiently.
Page by page, I moved slowly. And finally — four months later — I turned the last page.
And yet, I must say: I didn’t merely read the book.
I walked through it.
Not in haste, but in quiet reflection.
As if the book had been waiting for me to be ready — not just to read, but to receive.
The Top Five Regrets of the Dying is a widely loved and quietly powerful book by Bronnie Ware, an Australian nurse and author. During her years in palliative care, she tended to patients in the final weeks of their lives — listening more than speaking, holding space more than offering advice.
And in those hushed moments near the end, patterns began to emerge.
Again and again, people nearing death spoke of the same few regrets — not dramatic confessions, but quiet truths. Bronnie first shared them in a blog post that resonated across the world. That post eventually evolved into a full-length memoir, weaving together her own reflections and the voices of the dying.
Here are the five most common regrets she recorded:
- “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.”
This was the most frequent — the silent ache of unlived dreams, sacrificed at the altar of others’ expectations.
- “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.”
Most often voiced by men, who missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship in the chase for professional success.
- “I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.”
Many had kept their emotions locked inside, either to keep peace or out of fear — leading to bitterness and unresolved relationships.
- “I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.”
So many regretted letting friendships fade, simply because life kept them too busy to pick up the phone or write that message.
- “I wish I had let myself be happier.”
A surprisingly common one. People realized too late that happiness had always been within reach — but they had postponed it, trapped in old patterns, roles, or fears.
This book is not really about dying — it’s about living.
More consciously.
More honestly.
More meaningfully.
If ever in your life — especially when you are healthy and aware — you get a chance to read this book, I wholeheartedly recommend it. Read it before the urgency of regret finds you unprepared.
I was fortunate. I read it in time.
And in reading it, I reflected.
And in reflecting, I wrote — this.
Each regret Bronnie shared wasn’t a sentence.
It was an invitation.
- If you begin to live a life true to yourself — then every small ‘yes’ or ‘no’ that honors your inner voice is an act of redemption.
- If you balance work with presence, then each moment with your loved ones is a silent mending of the past.
- If you express your feelings — honestly, gently — you’re breaking the chains that once kept your heart quiet.
- If you pick up the phone, write a letter, or meet a friend — you are rebuilding a bridge you thought was lost.
- And if you choose happiness, even in the smallest brave moment — a walk, a poem, a prayer — you are reclaiming the joy that was always yours.
The author of that book wrote with a quiet urgency — not dramatic, but undeniable.
A deep awareness echoed through her words: that time, once lost, doesn’t return.
Her message carried the weight of truth spoken just in time… before it’s too late.
That phrase stayed with me.
It didn’t shout.
It whispered — and stayed.
It reminded me of something I had read years ago, something that had touched me just as deeply — a letter written by Dr. C.M. Boger to Dr. M.L. Dhawale. In it, Boger confessed that he was working tirelessly on his ideas and writings, fully aware that his time was running out. That line was not just a passing statement — it was a glimpse into the mind of a man racing not against competition, but against the clock of his own life. A man trying to complete what mattered most, before it was too late.
That same urgency began to rise in me — especially after I faced COVID-19 not once, but twice — first in 2020, and then again in 2022. Surviving those two encounters wasn’t just about healing the body. It was an inner awakening. A spiritual checkpoint.
I realized: I could no longer afford to postpone what mattered most to me — the one task that had been closest to my heart for decades — to bring Boger’s Legacy into the world. Not just as a tribute, but as a living, breathing work — in print, in practice, in permanence.
That phrase — before it’s too late — kept returning, not as fear, but as a sacred call to action.
And so, I moved.
I wrote.
I published.
Because this — I knew — was one regret I was not willing to carry.
Ironically, there was a time when I had resolved not to publish anything at all. The feeling was strong. Deep inside, I had almost convinced myself that this path was closed.
About three decades ago, I poured myself into the Phoenix Repertory Project — not as an assignment, but as a labour of love.
It wasn’t just academic work; it was something sacred.
I gave it the most vibrant and energetic years of my life. Day after day, hour after hour, I remained immersed — for months, disconnected from the world.
Just a Macintosh computer and me.
I nurtured that project like one nurtures a first child — with sleepless devotion and relentless care. Every line structured, every rubric refined, every cross-reference lovingly considered. It was not just work. It was worship.
But as fate sometimes does, it twisted the path.
What I had held close like my own, slowly began to feel like a surrogate child — born of me, yet no longer mine.
There was a strange distance.
What should have returned warmth and pride, returned silence.
That feeling — of something deeply personal slipping away — stayed with me for years.
Around that time, I had also compiled four to five derivatives of the main project — each crafted with quiet intensity, long hours, and emotional investment. But the recognition, the respect, the fairness I had hoped for… never came.
There was no explosion of anger.
Just a slow, inward erosion — a quiet disillusionment with the world of publication.
I began drifting away from it.
I still remember — shortly after the passing of Prof. Dr. D.P. Rastogi ji, around 2011 Late Shri Anil Jain ji of IBPS called me with an invitation to compile a book in Dr. Rastogi’s memory. A meaningful offer, perhaps. But I declined. I had no interest left. I was done with books. I had no more heart to offer.
That’s why my postgraduate research — carefully constructed and deeply personal — remained buried in files for almost 20 years. It never saw the light of day.
But life, like a patient teacher, works in mysterious ways. It softened those old edges with time — not by erasing them, but by helping me understand them.
I stopped fighting what had happened. I began to see the deeper design.
I understood that perhaps there were old karmic debts I had come to clear — silent dues from another time.
I had to give — fully, honestly — without the expectation of return.
And I did. I gave my time, my effort, my heart.
And in doing so, I slowly released the regret.
As Bronnie Ware observed in her book — one of the most common regrets men express near the end of life is “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.” The long hours, the chasing, the sacrifices that quietly steal time from family, joy, and presence.
Yes, I too worked hard. Maybe too hard. But I have come to peace with that chapter.
And now, as I sit here — writing, reflecting — I feel free.
Free to finally express what once remained buried.
Free to speak not just as a doctor, but as a human being with feelings.
As Ware writes: “I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.”
So many people suppress their emotions — out of fear, or to avoid disturbing the peace.
I was no exception.
But now — with a quiet heart, and a life still unfolding — I can say this with sincerity:
No regret remains.
Nearly 10 to 12 years ago, I made a conscious decision:
To step away from social media — entirely.
One by one, I deactivated every account. No more Facebook updates, no Twitter opinions, no WhatsApp forwards.
Gradually, I disconnected from digital conversations, the homeopathic community online, and even many friends.
The only things that remained were my mobile number, the occasional text message, and emails — and even those were used sparingly.
Phone calls were brief and essential.
Text messages had become outdated — mostly filled with spam or forgotten wishes.
And email, once the backbone of communication, had become a tool to read lab reports or coordinate appointments — nothing more.
My world had narrowed — not emotionally, but functionally — to just three spaces: Colleges, clinic and my home.
It made life simpler, yes. But also quieter.
In that simplicity, somewhere, I grew distant from everyone.
Then, about five to six years ago, a shift began.
I slowly started reconnecting — not digitally, but personally. I met up with my old classmates from NHMC. I still remember the warm gathering at Paschim Vihar, hosted by Dr. Rohit Bhandari. Then another at Dr. Meenakshi’s new home. Dr. Namita’s birthday gathering of this batch. A lunch at a restaurant in Rajouri Garden. Later, at the weddings of Dr. Ruby’s daughter and Dr. Tarun’s daughter.
Those meetings rekindled something gentle in me — a belonging, a shared history, a silent joy.
As Bronnie Ware wrote: “I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.”
I’m grateful to say — I did.
Maybe not through likes, comments, or tags — but through presence. Through showing up.
In recent years, I even returned to social media — not to scroll aimlessly, but with purpose.
To share the message of my book.
To reconnect with those who mattered.
To bridge what had once gone quiet.
So today, as I write this…
No regrets remain.
There was a time when, just to sustain life, I was caught in a rhythm that felt endless — working, working, and working.
Mornings were spent teaching at homeopathic colleges as visiting faculty. Evenings belonged to my patients at the clinic. There were no weekends, no pauses, no personal margins.
My clinic ran seven days a week.
No holidays.
Just a revolving door of responsibility.
I once sat down and did the math — I had been working almost 360 days a year. The remaining days didn’t feel like rest; they felt like administrative necessities.
And then came the COVID pandemic — with all its fear, stillness, and reflection.
For the first time in years, life stopped me.
It taught me one thing with sharp clarity: Your work is important, but so are you.
Your family. Your silence. Your breath.
After the lockdown lifted, I decided to make a change.
Since the local market near my clinic observes a weekly off on Tuesdays, I adopted the same.
That small shift felt like a deep breath. I reclaimed a day for myself. A day to just be — not as a doctor, but as a person.
Now, my clinic runs for about 300 days a year.
The other 65 days are mine — for rest, for reflection, for family.
As Bronnie Ware so beautifully put it:
“If you now balance work with presence, then each time you look your loved ones in the eyes and truly see them — you are healing the past.”
Still, one small regret lingers — I haven’t yet managed to take Sundays off. And that’s when most homeopathic seminars, conferences, and academic gatherings take place. The very events I’d love to attend and contribute to.
Perhaps in the near future, I’ll make space for one more holiday.
A second pause in the week.
Maybe bring down my clinic attendance to 250 days a year — not to work less, but to live more.
Of course, there are still some corners of my life where a quiet regret remains — not heavy, but gently waiting for attention.
- I wish I had taken better care of my body — not just in illness, but in everyday choices, movement, and rest.
- I wish I had traveled more, seen the world with curious eyes, let myself experience places beyond the familiar.
- I wish I had handled certain chapters of my life with more grace — with greater awareness, kindness, or patience.
These aren’t wounds — they’re whispers. Reminders of what still matters.
And I don’t wish to leave them untouched.
I will work on these.
Step by step, gently — not to undo the past, but to honour the present.
And as I do, I promise to share that journey with you — right here, in Manan.
Maybe, as you read these lines, you too are thinking of something in your own life — a moment, a choice, a silence — that still tugs at your heart.
Maybe you’ve carried a regret for years, quietly tucked behind the duties of daily life. Or perhaps it’s something recent — a relationship you didn’t nurture, a dream you postponed, a truth you never spoke.
If so, take a breath.
And know this: It’s not too late.
Regrets don’t need to define us. They can awaken us.
They can become the very path that brings us back — to what matters, to who we are, to how we want to live from this moment on.
You don’t have to change everything at once.
Start small.
Pick up the phone.
Take that walk.
Write that sentence.
Speak your truth.
Say thank you.
Say I’m sorry.
Say I love you.
Not someday. Now.
Let this be the moment you begin to live regret-free —
Not because your life has been perfect,
But because you’ve decided to live it fully — with presence, with courage, and with heart.
And if, in some way, these reflections in Manan help you look into your own mirror with more compassion, then this chapter has done its work.
In the end, we don’t seek a life without mistakes — we seek a life where nothing important was left unsaid, unloved, or undone.
I have been reading and enjoying your posts lately, Mr. Singhal, and I would regret not telling you how much I appreciate the beauty and the depth of your writing! Wise words and simple, eternal truths spoken with sincerity and clarity, then flowing from one soul to another! 🙏🙏🙏
I’ve lately started to wonder if homeopathy, studied in depth and reverently, isn’t another way of enlightenment, merging with life and all its subtle mysteries.
But then life itself is always the way to enlightenment, isn’t it?! If we care enough to look and to be aware!
Thank you to care enough to sit down and write! 🌟
Dear Ulrike,
Your words reached me like a gentle breeze — quiet, sincere, and deeply moving.
Thank you from the depths of my heart for taking the time to write such a thoughtful and soul-touching message. It means more than I can express in words.
To know that these reflections are being received with such openness and resonance — across space and silence — is a blessing I do not take for granted. Your kind acknowledgment feels like a conversation between hearts, where no explanation is needed… only presence.
Yes, I too have often felt what you described — that homeopathy, when approached with reverence and depth, is not just a system of healing, but a pathway to inner understanding… to subtle listening, to stillness, to truth. In its quiet way, it teaches us to see, to feel, and to heal — not just others, but ourselves.
And yes — life itself is the highest teacher, when we pause long enough to notice, and soft enough to receive.
Thank you for caring enough to read, to reflect, and to reach out.
In doing so, you have reminded me that every word shared from the heart does find its way — sometimes silently, but always surely.
With gratitude, warmth, and deep respect,
Dr. Anil Singhal