Who are we, if not the road we have not taken?

Robert Frost’s " The Road Not Taken” is a poem that we studied sometime in primary school, usually through a teacher who asked us to underline important phrases and memorise meanings. We were told that it was about choosing the road less travelled and about courage and individuality, but also about choices and uncertainty. The poem talked about two roads and the one that the poet ultimately chose, but that also leaves behind a path that wasn’t taken. Because for every road that we choose, there is another we leave behind. 

That’s something we see long after we’ve left the classrooms. A quick look into others’ lives,  through social media or updates from friends, family, colleagues, can often scratch old wounds, especially when we see someone our age pursuing a dream we once had, living somewhere we hoped to move, or walking a path we once considered but did not choose. We find ourselves facing a life uncomfortably close to the one we once imagined, brushing up against past possibilities and the what-ifs that might have been. 

This regret is a constant reminder of the opportunities not taken, someone we could’ve been but aren’t, things that never unfolded. It exists in the space between what we are and who we once thought we might become. We don't talk about this regret often because sitting with the what-ifs feels disloyal to the life we are living right now. Every decision closes up other possibilities, and it's only natural to grieve them. But would regret truly disappear if we had chosen differently, or would it grow to attach itself to another version of our life? 

That the roads we didn’t take weren’t meaningless. They held our hopes, our curiosity, our longing. Even unlived, they shape how we understand ourselves and what we continue to value. The paths we didn't take linger as a reference point, beside the path we inhabit. 

Perhaps what rattles us is not only the road we did not take, but the story we attach to it. In Frost’s poem, he claims that his choice, “has made all the difference”, even though earlier he admits the two roads were, “worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay”. The meaning of his choice emerges in retrospect. Maybe regret stems from the same instinct: the tendency to imagine the unlived road as happier, clearer, and more certain. The road not taken becomes smooth in imagination, as we’ve never lived with its struggles and frustrations. Without the disappointments attached to it, it remains perfect in imagination. What if the other road feels better because we never lived with its uncertainties? 

The road not taken doesn't disappear; it travels alongside every decision we make. Some days we feel settled with our choices, on others we feel the echo of what could have been. Maybe regret isn't something to get rid of or resolve. Regret isn't a verdict on our choices; rather, it's something to notice, a reflection of how much our choices matter to us. What if regret isn’t something we outrun, but something we learn how to walk beside? 

And if every path will eventually gather happiness and frustrations, then what makes one filled with regret and the other meaningful? When we look back to the roads we did not take, are we remembering the possibilities or imagining relief?