What does it mean when you regret something you can't take back or fix?

Mirabai spent her life in a kind of sacred regret—longing for something she couldn't possess, loving someone unreachable. And yet that regret didn't destroy her. It refined her. It became the thing that made her human, that connected her to other people's pain. There's a difference between regret that teaches you and regret that punishes you. Unfixable regret—when you've hurt someone and reconciliation isn't possible, or you've made a choice whose consequences can't be undone—asks you to do something harder than apologize. It asks you to change. You can't give back the years you didn't call. You can't unsay the harsh words. But you can examine why you did those things. Not to shame yourself endlessly, but to understand the scared or angry or selfish part of yourself that acted. Mirabai's devotion wasn't about being perfect; it was about being awake to her own heart. The unfixable regret becomes useful when it stops you from doing the same thing to someone else. When it makes you gentler. When it teaches you that people matter more than being right. That's not redemption—redemption is a story we tell ourselves. It's transformation. It's the slow, unglamorous work of becoming someone who knows better because you've lived the regret.