When Regret Spoke

I never believed in funerals the way everyone else does. They always felt like a stage play people put on too late — tears after years of silence, apologies when the person who needed to hear them is gone.

But the one that changed me forever was my sister’s.

I had only been out of jail for two years. Still figuring life out. Still rebuilding myself piece by piece.

And then she died.

Walking into that funeral, I wasn’t thinking about speaking. I wasn’t thinking about showing strength or saying the “right” thing.

I was thinking about one brutal truth: we weren’t on good terms when she left this world. And there was no fixing it now.

No call.

No visit.

No “I’m sorry.” Just a permanent hole.

When they asked if anyone wanted to speak, I felt something move in me — not confidence, not courage… just truth. The kind that doesn’t wait for permission.

So, I walked up there.

What I didn’t know — what nobody told me — was that the whole thing was being streamed live on Facebook. People were watching from everywhere. Family. Friends. Strangers.

Didn’t matter.

None of them were in my head that day. I stood in front of the pastor, in front of my family, in front of the drawing of the lupus butterfly I made for her, and I said the one thing I needed the world to hear:

“If there’s one thing you should take from this fucking shit… it’s this:

Don’t die with regret.

Don’t live with it either.”

People told me afterward they’d never heard anyone say “fuck” and “shit” in front of a pastor without flinching. But I wasn’t talking to a pastor. I wasn’t talking to an audience. I was talking to the last piece of my sister I could reach.

I told them I had to live with the fact that our last chapter was unfinished.

That I’d carry that forever.

Not as pity — but as a reminder.

A reminder that silence is a choice.

Distance is a choice.

Saying nothing is a choice.

And one day, you’ll run out of tomorrows to fix it.

When I finished, I didn’t cry. But you could see it in my face — the kind of hurt that doesn’t need tears to be understood.

I walked off.

My older brother was supposed to speak next, but he couldn’t. Not because he didn’t love her — but because some truths close the room. There was nothing left to add.

That day changed me.

It taught me that funerals happen too late.

People wait until death to tell the truth, to show love, to say what they should’ve said while the person could still hear it.

I promised myself I’d never live that way again.

No more unspoken words.

No more waiting until it’s safe.

No more letting fear stop me from telling the truth when it matters.

Regret became the one lesson I refused to repeat.

It became the backbone of how I speak, how I love, how I confront, how I build.

It became part of AuthentI-City.

Part of my movement.

Part of the fire that keeps me honest.

Because if my sister’s death taught me anything, it’s this:

Say it while they’re here.

Mean it while it matters.

Live in a way that leaves nothing unsaid.

And ever since that day,

I haven’t.