Collected Regrets Of Clover Quotes

The secret to a beautiful death is living a beautiful life.

Instead of constantly asking ourselves the question of why we're here, maybe we should be savoring the simpler truth: We are here.

It’s easy to glamorize the path you didn’t take.

Be cautiously reckless.

Don’t let the best parts of life pass you by because you’re too scared of the unknown.

Maybe we just need to appreciate that many aspects of life— and the people we love—will always be a mystery. Because without mystery, there is no magic.

Grief, I'd come to realize was like dust, When you're in the thick of a dust storm, you're completely disoriented by the onslaught, struggling to see or breathe. But as the force recedes, and you slowly find your bearing and see a path forward, the dust begins to settle into the crevices. And it will never disappear completely- as the years pass, you'll find it in unexpected places at unexpected moments.

It frustrated me that society. was so determined to quantify grief, as if time could erase the potency of love.

Who are we to tell anyone their pain isn't worthy?

Grief is just love looking for a place to settle.

If you want something you don’t have,” he’d said, “you have to do something you’ve never done.

The truth is, grief neve really goes away. Someone told me once that it's like a bag that you always carry - it starts out as large as a suitcase, and as the years go by, it might reduce to the size of a purse, but you carry it forever. I know it probably sounds cliched, but it helped me realize that I didn't need to ever get over it completely.

Intelligence will only get you so far in life... And the same can be said for wit and charm. But two things will serve you better than any others."... "What are they?" "Infinite curiosity and sense of observation.

... most of us are guilty of that with our loved ones. We get stuck in a routine and we look at them as we've always looked at them, without seeing them for the person they've become or the person they strive to be. What a terrible thing to do to someone you love.

while a mother who miscarries might not have ever had the chance to hold that child, they had plenty. of time to love them, to dream and hope for them. And that means their grief is twofold - they're not just grieving the child, but the life they never got to experience. Who are we to tell anyone their pain isn't worthy?

The secret to a beautiful death is to live a beautiful life. Putting your heart out there. Letting it get broken. Taking chances. Making mistakes.... Promise me, kid,...that you'll let yourself live.

Your grief is yours to process in your own time, in whatever way works for you. No one can tell you how to do that.

I was still here, still living. But was I just existing out of habit?

Hugo— We are not meant to be in this lifetime . . . perhaps we will meet in another. I’ll keep you in my heart until then. —Claudia

I didn’t need to live forever to know what loneliness felt like.

You were always someone’s wife, or mother, or daughter before you were yourself. It’s like I didn’t live my life for myself, as myself. Like I wasted what I was given.

When someone has always been there for you, it’s easy to assume they always will be. And then, one day, they’re not.

Grief plays tricks on you that way—a familiar whiff of cologne or a potential sighting of your person in a crowd, and all the knots you’ve tied inside yourself to manage the pain of losing them suddenly unravel.

Don't let the best parts of life pass you by because you are too scared of the unknown.

And instead of constantly asking ourselves the question of why we’re here, maybe we should be savoring a simpler truth: We are here.

I’ve never understood Western society’s warped perception of grief as something quantifiable and finite, a problem to be fixed.

gratitude doesn’t necessarily free us from sadness—or our fears.

I don't think it's weird at all. Death is a natural part of life. in fact, it's the only thing in life that we can really count on.

That’s the thing about loneliness: no one ever chooses it.

There’s a reason I know this city’s full of lonely people. I’m one of them.

extended solitude was always a fickle thing. At first it soothed, swaddling me from the chaos and expectations of being human. Then, in an instant, it shifted from rejuvenation to numbing isolation.

What most people don’t consider is that death is often random and cruel. It doesn’t care if you’ve been kind all your life. Or if you’ve eaten healthily, exercised often, and always worn a seat belt or a helmet. It doesn’t care that a loved one left behind might spend the rest of their lives replaying events in their head, tormented by the words “if only.” People tell themselves they’ve got plenty of time, until they’re at the mercy of a careless action—a driver on their cellphone, a neighbor who left a candle burning. And by then, it’s too late.

It’s so easy to see your parental figure through that lens alone, to think that their existence has always revolved around yours. But before they were parents, they were simply human beings trying to navigate life as best they could, dealing with their own disappointments, chasing after their own dreams. And yet we often expect them to be infallible.

Observing the world, rather than engaging with it, meant I didn't have to invest emotionally. If I never got close to anyone, they couldn't leave me. Or it wouldn't hurt if they did. Better to be alone by choice - that was one thing I always had control over. But now I realized I wasn't fooling anyone. The truth was, I wasn't trying my best - I was only living a shell of the life I knew was possible. And I regretted it.

Don’t let the best parts of life pass you by because you’re too scared of the unknown.” One last wink. “Be cautiously reckless.

maybe we have different business with the same souls in each lifetime. And it doesn’t always work out how we want it to in every one of them.

Worst of all, I hadn’t cherished the small details that felt inconsequential then but that I missed so dearly now

I never realized how much I loved them until I couldn't tell them...

I mostly regret putting the needs of others ahead of my own. But as a woman, that’s what I was taught to do. You were always someone's wife, or mother, or daughter before you were yourself.

..."let's think about each of these matches as a human life."... "each of these matches should burn for exactly the same amount of time, right?"..."but sometimes, you strike a match and it goes out almost immediately. Other times, it stops burning halfway." "And sometimes it breaks when you try to light it." "Exactly!... So even though they're technically the same, each match is actually very unique. Sometimes it's not as strong structurally, for reasons we can't see just by looking at it. And there are outside factors that contribute - like how hard we strike it against the box, or the dampness in the air, or how much breeze there is when we try to light it. All those things can affect how long a match burns for."... "But what's that got to do with dying?"... "Well, my dear, just as we don't know how long a match will last until we light it, we never know how long a life will last until we live it. And often there are factors that we have no control over.

About what it would be like to have someone whose day was better for having you in it. Someone whose mind you occupied even when you weren’t there. Someone who trusted that you would treat their heart gently—and would take on the sacred duty of doing the same for you.

I’ll tell you a secret about adults, Clover,” he said finally. “Even though it seems like they know what they’re doing, often they’re just trying their best to work life out as they go. And that’s especially true of parents—I think every mom and dad probably wishes they’d done things differently at some point, in some way.

People weren’t usually looking for a commentary to these sorts of revelations. They just needed someone to sit and listen to them without judgment. It’s tempting to try to fix it, to cheer them up. But the truth is, you’ll never find the right thing to say—because the right thing doesn’t exist. The fact that you’re there, and present, says so much more.

The treasure of having someone who knew your taste in books. A shoulder to rest your head on as you browsed.

It wasn’t that I was opposed to the idea of friendship; it’s just that if you don’t get close to anyone, you can’t lose them.

Who are we to tell anyone their pain isn’t worthy?

When living became a habit rather than a privilege and the years ticked by unnoticed.

What was it like to feel a love so strong that it still lingered with you more than sixty years later?

Nobody ever understands love—anyone who says they do is lying or in denial. We’re all just working it out as we go.

Unfortunately, there are a lot of people in this world who are unhappy with the lives they’ve chosen.

Hugo— We are not meant to be in this lifetime … perhaps we will meet in another. I’ll keep you in my heart until then. —Claudia

a woman whose outfit wasn’t complete unless it was sprinkled with cat hair.

it's always important to be honest, Clover - even when people don't hold you accountable.

Until we meet, I'll look at the moon because it's the one thing we both share,

Love is kind of like scratching a mosquito bite - painful and euphoric at the same time. You've just got to get out of your head and into your heart.

Observing the world, rather than engaging with it, meant I didn’t have to invest emotionally. If I never got close to anyone, they couldn’t leave me. Or it wouldn’t hurt if they did.

I wondered how long it would be until that look of wonderment in their eyes dulled and their curiosity stopped burning. When living became a habit rather than a privilege and the years ticked by unnoticed.

Grief plays tricks on you that way - a familiar whiff of cologne or a potential sighting of your person in a crowd, and all the knots you've tied inside yourself to manage the pain of losing them suddenly unravel.

He dipped his teaspoon into his black coffee and stirred it as he thought. I'd watched him perform the same action so many times in the past few weeks that I wondered if the answers to all hard questions lay in the bottom of a coffee cup.

I’d spent the last thirty-six years coming to grips with the idea that it was difficult to be anything other than what the world already thinks you are. But what about what you already think you are—was it possible for me to change what I believed about myself?

You can find meaning in anything if you look hard enough; if you want to believe that everything happens for a reason. But if we completely understood one another, if every event made sense, none of us would ever learn or grow. Our days might be pleasant, but prosaic.

I wish I’d told them how much I love them. Sometimes people were referring to parents or spouses, other times it was friends. In almost every case, it was because they’d been so busy in their lives that they took their loved ones for granted. Or they just never knew how to find the right words.

As the lights dimmed and the audience hushed, I closed my eyes and tuned into the ripples of anticipation that always came at the beginning of a live performance. That shared intimacy among strangers where, for just as moment, everyone laid aside their baggage and life to be completely present as one - a communal hopefulness.

Though he'd given the instructions years ago, I stood outside the gas station and did what I'd been told. Eyes closed. Breathe in. Breathe out. "Now, instead of focusing on all the things that have gone wrong." Grandpa would then say, "think about the next right step forward you could take to move things in a positive direction.

people often felt the need to say something as they were dying, something of significance—as if they realized it was their last chance to leave a mark on the world. Usually those last messages fit into one of three categories: things they’d wish they’d done differently, things they’d learned along the way, or secrets they’d kept that they were finally ready to reveal.

frustrated me that society was so determined to quantify grief, as if time could erase the potency of love. Or, on the other hand, how it dictated that grief for someone you knew fleetingly should be equally as fleeting. But while a mother who miscarries might not have ever had the chance to hold that child, they had plenty of time to love them, to dream and hope for them. And that means their grief is twofold—they’re not just grieving the child, but the life they never got to experience. Who are we to tell anyone their pain isn’t worthy?

I’ve never understood Western society’s warped perception of grief as something quantifiable and finite, a problem to be fixed. Eight months after Grandpa died, my doctor suggested I see a psychiatrist because I was still having trouble accepting he was gone. After only one session, the psychiatrist promptly diagnosed me with “persistent complex bereavement disorder,” aka chronic grief, and suggested I take antidepressants. Turns out, in the opinion of most medical experts, your grieving process shouldn’t last longer than six months. And if you aren’t over it by then, there’s something clinically wrong with you.

Grief, I’d come to realize, was like dust. When you’re in the thick of a dust storm, you’re completely disoriented by the onslaught, struggling to see or breathe. But as the force recedes, and you slowly find your bearings and see a path forward, the dust begins to settle into the crevices. And it will never disappear completely—as the years pass, you’ll find it in unexpected places at unexpected moments. Grief is just love looking for a place to settle.

But extended solitude was always a fickle thing. At first it soothed, swaddling me from the chaos and expectations of being human. Then, in an instant, it shifted from rejuvenation to numbing isolation.

Now I knew how to recognize that reaction. I'd seen it countless times since then, whenever I mentioned my job to other people. The way their bodies tensed, how they avoided eye contact. The way they mysteriously never had time for a conversation. It was as if my mere presence might somehow expedite their mortality.

I'd learned the hard way that when people ask you how you're doing after a loved one's death, they don't really want to know. They want to hear that you've moved on because they can't stand to look at your pain. And when I didn't move on, the emails gradually trickled to nothing.

Our grief could coexist. I loved that he'd kept his ring, even when people suggested it was time he took it off. It frustrated me that society was so determined to quantify grief, as if time could erase the potency of love. Or, on the other hand, how it dictated that grief for someone you knew fleetingly should be equally fleeting.

Love is kind of like scratching a mosquito bite - painful and euphoric at the same time.

And that's what photography is all about - making people feel seen. Of course, we look at people every day, but we rarely stop to really see them for who they are.

To observe someone swept away by the thing they're most passionate about, most skilled at - what some call 'flow' - is one of life's great privileges. There's an energy that emanates, a magic. As if they're opening their hearts up completely and letting themselves communicate with the world in their purest form - unencumbered by insecurities, stresses, and bitterness. Like time is suspended and they're simply allowing themselves to be.

Gratitude doesn't necessarily free us from sadness - or our fears.

You know, I really like what she said in her final letter. 'We're not meant to be in this lifetime... perhaps we'll meet in another.' It's actually super pragmatic. Like, maybe we have different business with the same souls in each lifetime. And it doesn't always work out how we want it to in every one of them.

The secret of a beautiful death is a beautiful life.

Lately, it seemed like everyone had reached the end of their lives with regrets.

I clutched my book to my chest like a precious treasure.

There may be almost nine million people living here, but New York is a city of lonely people full of regrets. It's my job to make their final moments a little less lonesome.

The reason so many people die with regrets is because they live like they're invincible.

Someone told me once that it’s like a bag that you always carry—it starts out as a large suitcase, and as the years go by, it might reduce to the size of a purse, but you carry it forever. I know it probably sounds clichéd, but it helped me realize that I didn’t need to ever get over it completely.

Grief, I’d come to realize, was like dust. When you’re in the thick of a dust storm, you’re completely disoriented by the onslaught, struggling to see or breathe. But as the force recedes, and you slowly find your bearings and see a path forward, the dust begins to settle into the crevices. And it will never disappear completely— as the years pass, you’ll find it in unexpected places at unexpected moments. Grief is just love looking for a place to settle.

As Far I can I can tell, "I Love You" was one of the hardest words in the English Language. Not for its pronunciation, but for the weight it carried.

Shepherding a dying person through the last days of their life is a privilege- especially when you're the only thing they have to hold on to.

The bedding was tucked in so firmly around me that it was difficult to roll onto my side. I imagined that was what it was like to be held in a tight hug, but since I hadn't experienced many of those, I wasn't completely sure.

When you grow up as an only child, you learn to inhabit your imagination almost as frequently as you do reality.

I’ve never understood Western society’s warped perception of grief as something quantifiable and finite, a problem to be fixed. Eight months after Grandpa died, my doctor suggested I see a psychiatrist because I was still having trouble accepting he was gone. After only one session, the psychiatrist promptly diagnosed me with “persistent complex bereavement disorder,” aka chronic grief, and suggested I take antidepressants. Turns out, in the opinion of most medical experts, your grieving process shouldn’t last longer than six months. And if you aren’t over it by then, there’s something clinically wrong with you. What the hell? It felt callous to be expected to resume life as normal six months after losing someone whose existence had been so indelibly intertwined with yours.

Looking other people’s pain in the eye was much easier than facing your own.

I mostly regret putting the needs of others ahead of my own. But as a woman, that’s what I was taught to do. Your husband, your children, your parents—their happiness all mattered more. You were always someone’s wife, or mother, or daughter before you were yourself. It’s like I didn’t live my life for myself, as myself. Like I wasted what I was given.

It felt callous to be expected to resume life as normal six months after losing someone whose existence had been so indelibly intertwined with yours.

It’s so easy to see your parental figure through that lens alone, to think that their existence has always revolved around yours. But before they were parents, they were simply human beings trying to navigate life as best they could, dealing with their own disappointments, chasing after their own dreams. And yet we often expect them to be infallible. It

As the lights dimmed and the audience hushed, I closed my eyes and tuned into the ripples of anticipation that always came at the beginning of a live performance. That shared intimacy among strangers where, for just a moment, everyone laid aside the baggage of life to be completely present as one—a communal hopefulness.

I gradually began to realize that pitying them wouldn’t take away their pain. The kindest thing I could do for them was to look them in the eye and simply acknowledge their presence as human beings.

But even I knew there was a perilous line between watching something vicariously and watching it to replace real-life emotions

The truth is, grief never really goes away. Someone told me once that it’s like a bag that you always carry—it starts out as a large suitcase, and as the years go by, it might reduce to the size of a purse, but you carry it forever. I know it probably sounds clichéd, but it helped me realize that I didn’t need to ever get over

It’s just a little bit of water, kid. And besides, there are only so many times in your life you get to play in the rain.” He turned his face skywards, grinning. “Might as well enjoy it while I can.

We get stuck in a routine and we look at them as we’ve always looked at them, without seeing them for the person they’ve become or the person they strive to be. What a terrible thing to do to someone you love.

I can’t imagine not having pets.” They were what helped make my life livable—beating hearts to come home to each day.