Why You Regret Decisions You Made While Struggling

Let's think about a decision we regret.

One that we really, really regret. Perhaps it happened a couple of years ago, but we still remember it vividly. Some days, this memory goes to bed with us, tucks us in, and we have to share our pillow with it.

Now, back to reality, I have a few questions: What were you carrying back then, and for how long? Had you slept? Did you feel safe? Was there anyone in your corner, or were you, in the way that actually matters, completely alone?

Because I'm willing to bet you weren't at your best. A hundred dollars says you were at least a bit foggy. And I also know that the same decision landed on us today, rested, fed, not on fire, we'd handle it differently.

Homo sapiens loves to play this little game of judging other people, and honestly, that's fine! It's fun, even, and I'm a big fan of harmless gossip myself. The problem is that we also love to believe our good decisions come from our good character.

Mmmmm... no, not quite.

I invite you to spend enough time in the forums and comment sections around Grave of the Fireflies, and you will find people arguing with the conviction of eyewitnesses about a war that ended before most of them were born.

Half the audience points at Seita, the teenage brother who takes his toddler sister and abandons their aunt's house to live alone in an empty shelter, with no income, no food supply, and no plan beyond a tin of fruit drops and a fierce need to stop being humiliated. For these people, Seita is nothing but a proud, stubborn brat whose choices went south and cost his sister's life.

The other half points at the aunt, who skimmed the children's food rations, made Setsuko feel like a burden, and turned the house so hostile that leaving felt like the only sane option. If anyone in that house was equipped to hold things together, to absorb the friction, to recognize that two traumatized children were not a burden but a responsibility, it was her. That is the bare minimum of what an adult owes suffering children.

Or so we think.

Both sides deliver their verdicts with enormous confidence, but I think they are arguing about the wrong thing.

I don't believe Nosaka was writing a verdict; he was recording something even more disturbing: how regular humans react when subjected to conditions they were never meant to survive, and then assessed by those who never lived them.

Have you ever looked back at something you did and thought, "That wasn't me"? Under sustained stress, the part of the brain that plans and weighs options goes quieter, and the alarm system takes the wheel. Doors that exist start looking like walls.

The closest analogy I can offer, and even this is too simple, is to go 36 hours without sleep. You feel like you're living in another dimension, battling yourself just to get through the day. Extreme stress does something similar. It's a survival system that handles the threat in front of you and sacrifices everything else, including long-term thinking and the bigger picture.

He faced danger not just one afternoon but lived in a war zone with constant uncertainty, hunger, loss, and fear. His nervous system was in survival mode, which also hindered clear thinking. No fourteen-year-old can handle such a situation like a soldier; he's a kid with a developing brain in a chaotic world.

A child normally worried about school and friends but was instead coping with grief, hunger, and caring for a toddler, with no money, parents, or societal support. Some internet critics are disappointed with his long-term thinking.

Many see his pride as a flaw, or even as villainous. However, in such harsh circumstances, pride was not vanity; it served as his only mental refuge. Without it, he would have had nothing: no stability, no purpose; just a child with a toddler and a deceased mother in a chaotic land, with no motivation to go on.

Leaving was not the right choice. I recognize his pride, but it doesn't justify his decision, which led to the deaths of Setsuko and himself. Could he see that clearly from his confined perspective? That is the only question that matters.

Now, let's gently turn the mirror around together.

The folks leaving comments, sharing their confident opinions from the comfort of their phones, laptops, or cozy spaces, are actually engaging in a very different kind of thinking than the one they're criticizing.

They are well-fed and safe, not grieving or responsible for a dying toddler. They've slept, aren't fourteen, and aren't witnessing a war destroying everything they once relied on. In other words, they have full access to the very faculties they blame Seita for lacking.

I believe they have mistaken that access for wisdom.

So, can we agree we're not superior to Seita; rather, we're better resourced, rested, and well-fed. Plus, we have the valuable privilege of not experiencing the war firsthand. Many of us may never truly understand what that feels like.

I often recall a scene near the end: Setsuko is dying, and Seita goes to the bank to withdraw their mother's remaining money, which he had safeguarded for reasons that made sense to him but seem inexplicable to others. He spends it on food, buys watermelon, and takes it home.

She dies before eating it. This scene starkly shows how the fog works. Money was always available, the door was open, and resources existed. Yet, from suffering's perspective, he couldn't see them until, suddenly... and too late, he could. It's not about a bad brother; it's about how perception worsens under relentless pressure.

Against all odds, I'll excuse the aunt a bit. Her version feels more familiar because it is. She wasn't a villain. She was a woman watching the war eat her security, and with it her generosity. As food shrank, so did her circle of people who mattered. Her sister's orphans became two mouths she couldn't feed, and Setsuko stopped being a little girl who needed love and became proof of a problem she hadn't caused. Scarcity doesn't usually make people evil, but it does make them smaller.

Except I can't fully anchor there, because I know it isn't the whole truth. Right now there are people living on the street, people for whom scarcity is permanent, who would still share their last meal with a stranger or sit with you when nobody else would. Having nothing made them more generous, not less.

So pressure doesn't shrink everyone. Some people get smaller, and some get bigger, and the war just shows you which one you were living with. That's where the aunt and Seita part ways for me. Seita was lost in the fog. The aunt was a grown woman, and her stinginess was already there, waiting for an excuse. That makes her a lot harder to forgive.

Good decisions aren’t only about being good, but about favorable conditions like being over fourteen, well-fed, or not responsible for a dying person. Decency depends on the situation, but true goodness endures even when conditions aren't perfect.

So, my literary self holds the ambiguity, while my personal self still holds a bit of a grudge against her attitude.

Grave of the Fireflies isn't just a warning about pride; it's a heartfelt story that touches on the struggles of difficult times.

It's a mirror, and the face looking back isn't Seita's; it's ours.

Especially on the day when the conditions finally turn against us.