Since we are flawed beings, mistakes seem to be a part of our genetic makeup. It’s what we do. The more cynical and jaded of us might say it’s what we do best.

I’m learning to accept my mistakes with grace. I won’t lie and say it gets easier. I know that I can’t just slap my forehead every time I do something wrong or even throw in a cute “D’OH!” à la Homer Simpson and expect everything to proceed swimmingly. There are some mistakes that are so monumental in their disastrous proportions that the best we can do is lift our heads and move on from it.

The one mistake that I’ll always regret is not being there for my brother when we were younger. I am five years older than him, but it’s not just a half decade that separates us. He was diagnosed at a young age with emotional problems. He was always “different,” categorized as such by his teachers and peers.

I regret being embarrassed to be seen in public with him. I regret not being there for him when people made fun of him. I regret not being a better sister.