Things I Wish I Said…
Sometimes the words we don’t say haunt us. Here’s what I’ve learned about giving them a voice—and why it’s never too late.
PART I: The Myth of the Perfect Goodbye
They say you’ll get your moment—a cinematic chance to spill every “I love you” and “I’m sorry” before the credits roll. But life’s not a movie. My great-uncle Jerry, who paired socks with sandals like a fashion dare, died mid-sentence, debating how to grill trout. No heartfelt speech. Just a spatula and silence.
The truth? Most of us don’t get the mic. The words we meant to say pile up like dishes in a sink, waiting for a tomorrow that doesn’t come. Here’s the part nobody tells you: those unsaid words don’t vanish. They skitter around your heart like a raccoon loose in your emotional garage, making a mess you can’t ignore.
PART II: Regret Is a Noisy Houseguest
Regret isn’t poetic. It’s not a wistful sigh over a sunset. It’s me, wide awake at 3 a.m., replaying a 2007 argument with my sister over… what the hell was it again? I called her “selfish.” What I meant was, “I’m scared we’re growing apart.” Here’s my confession, dear reader: I keep a mental ledger of “What I Wish I Said” moments. It’s messy:
- Telling my high school biology teacher her faith in me was a lifeline.
- Apologizing to my old dog for snapping when he chewed my sneakers.
- Asking my aunt how she kept going after losing her sister.
These unsaid things are like half-written letters stuffed in a drawer. The trick is pulling them out, reading them aloud, even if only to yourself. It’s not closure—it’s conversation. Want to try it? Jot down one thing you wish you’d said. It’s weirdly freeing.
PART III: The Hrmphrouw Effect (Don’t Look It Up)
Let’s coin a term: Hrmphrouw (n). The gut-twist when you realize you never told someone how much they mattered, usually after they’re gone. It’s “hrmph” (that frustrated grunt) plus “rue” (regret with old-timey flair). Ever felt it?
We’re told to “move on,” to let go of what we didn’t say. But the Hrmphrouw Effect disagrees. When a friend’s dad passed, I wished I’d asked about his days as a volunteer firefighter. Instead, I sat with the ache, his stories locked in a vault I’d never open. Here’s the kicker, reader: you’re not broken for feeling this. You’re just a translator who hasn’t found the words yet. What if the Hrmphrouw Effect is your heart begging you to speak?
PART IV: Closure is a Liar
Closure is a con artist, promising you’ll wrap grief in a neat bow and walk away. Spoiler: it doesn’t work. When my neighbor died, I thought I’d “processed” it. Then I found his gardening gloves in my shed, stiff with dirt, and the raccoon was back, ransacking my calm. I wished I’d told him his corny puns made my mornings bearable.
The unsaid doesn’t need closure; it needs a home. I started writing letters to people I’ve lost—not to mail, but to keep. One was for my old boss, thanking her for believing in me when I didn’t. It’s like planting a seed in a garden you’ll never see bloom. What if you don’t need to “get over” someone? What if you just need to carry them with you, in words?
PART V: The Secret Rituals of Remembering
Here’s where I get weird: I talk to people who aren’t here. Not in a ghost-whisperer way, but while folding laundry or stuck in traffic. I thank my childhood friend for teaching me to whistle. I apologize to my college roommate for ghosting him after a fight. It’s not nuts—it’s human.
These rituals are my way of saying what I didn’t. Sometimes I jot down lists: my dad’s off-key whistle, my aunt’s lavender scent, my best friend snorting soda from laughing too hard. These details aren’t small—they’re the scaffolding of a life. Try it, reader: write down one tiny thing about someone you miss. Maybe slip it into a jar. It’s like catching fireflies, glowing just for you.
PART VI: The Terror of Getting It Wrong
Saying what you wish you’d said is terrifying. What if you mess it up? What if you pick the wrong words, or worse, say nothing? I once tried to tell my brother I was proud of him, but it came out as, “You’re doing okay, I guess.” I still cringe.
The fear is real, but it’s a liar. A friend told me about her mom’s passing, how she wished she’d said “I love you” one more time. She didn’t, but she volunteered at her mom’s favorite animal shelter. It was her way of saying it. Here’s my confession: I’m scared I’ll forget my dad’s laugh—gruff, like a bear chuckling. So I write it down. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. Ever wonder what you’d want someone to say about you?
PART VII: The Things We Carry Forward
The unsaid doesn’t have to be a burden. It can be a compass. After my sister and I fought over who-knows-what, we didn’t speak for years. When we reconnected, I didn’t rehash it. I just said, “I missed you.” It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. The raccoon in the garage quieted down, at least for a while.
Here’s what I’m trying to say now, before it’s too late:
- To my barista, who remembers my order: You make my day easier.
- To my mother: You’re amazing. (Nothing I write or say will ever be enough)
- To my spouse: You’re my rock. You’re my reason.
- To myself: You’re doing better than you think.
These are small, but they’re practice. The unsaid becomes said, one clumsy step at a time. What’s on your list, reader? Drop it in the comments—I’d love to hear.
PART VIII: A Toast to the Unspoken
Here we are, you and me, staring down the raccoon in the garage. The unsaid doesn’t have to win. It’s not about erasing regret or perfecting the past. It’s about weaving those unspoken words into something beautiful, like a quilt from scraps of memory. Every “I wish I’d said” is a thread, proof you loved, cared, noticed.
To you, dear reader, I raise a mug of coffee (I’m in recovery, it’s all I’ve got). May you find the courage to say what’s in your heart, whether a whisper to the past or a shout to the present. Life’s too short to let the raccoon run the show. Here’s to the weird, messy, glorious act of being human—of saying, or at least trying, what matters most.
If you’ve ever thought, “I wouldn’t know how to say it,” that’s where we come in.
One story. One page. A lifetime of meaning.
