Regret is a heavy companion.
It lingers around failures, missteps and tragedies.
Appreciate all that you have and it will pay dividends.
From a young age, I was always interested in the natural world around me. One man distilled this passion into a proficiency that I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
My uncle, Mike Wyatt, was a great man. He and his wife, Piper, have been an extremely important part of my life. Accolades and accomplishments in excess, kindness and care without bound, Mike was always a supportive and loving uncle. Mike and Piper never had any children, so in many ways my relationship with Mike resembled that of father and son. Until recently, I never considered how fortunate I was to grow up with two pairs of adults in my life that were always available for advice or friendship.
Before I moved to Dallas, whenever I was in town, he would take me to the aquarium, zoo or a tackle shop. One evening after a tiring, hot summer day in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, he took me out behind our condo with a fly rod and taught me the fly cast, kickstarting an obsession that keeps me up at night to this day.
For many years, Mike continued in this role as my fun uncle, always ready and enthusiastic for whatever would come next. We went on many more fishing trips together and developed a deep bond over the sport which we both loved.
In the fall of my freshman year, I became preoccupied with all of the new responsibilities and privileges of Upper School. I focused on school and left little time for fishing or my family. The prior summer, Mike went on a mental health retreat. I thought little of it at the time. Upon his return in September, we had a big family dinner to welcome him back home.
If I had known that was the last time I would see him, the number of things I would have done differently is uncountable.
On the morning of Sept. 25, 2023, my dad shattered my world.
I was cleaning the house with my sister when I heard him approaching from the garage. He paused just outside the doorway and proceeded with slow, intentional steps. He walked in the room, sat us down and uttered words I thought impossible:
Mike is Gone.
I sat in disbelief for hours, unable to process the nauseating storm of emotions that struck me. The man who taught me to tie a tie, who collected snow globes from every corner of the world, who filled my childhood with wonder and love was gone in an instant.
The days that followed blurred into grief, regret and an aching absence I couldn’t begin to fill. I replayed our last family dinner again and again, haunted by the thought of how differently I might have acted if I had known it was my final chance to sit across the table from him. That kind of regret never fades.
As I tried to make sense of his death, I began to understand just how common suicide is. In 2023 alone, more than 49,000 Americans lost their lives this way. Over 12.8 million adults seriously considered suicide. For men in particular, the silence around mental health is lethal — four times as many men die by suicide as women.
These numbers aren’t just statistics to me. They are Mike. They are the empty chair at Thanksgiving. They are the missing fishing partner on a summer morning.
I carry regret with me every day. But I also carry the lessons Mike gave me — the love of the natural world, the rhythm of a fly cast, the belief that joy is worth chasing. And I carry a responsibility: to honor his life by breaking the silence that contributed to his death.
Regret may be a heavy companion, but it can also be a teacher. If we let it, it can push us to speak up, to reach out, and to fight for a future where fewer families are left wondering what they could have done differently.
