There are things I’ve done that I’m not proud of. Not because they were wrong in some universal, moral sense, but because I did them knowing I shouldn’t. I did them because I wanted to. Because, in that moment, it felt like the only thing to do. And for years, I carried the weight of that, believing that regret was a form of penance, that self-recrimination was the price of redemption. But what if I never needed redemption in the first place? What if the things I thought I needed to atone for were just stepping stones to where I am now? What …
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