Chapter 6: Understanding Backwards, Living Forwards

A Box of Old Letters

Anneliese is sixty-one. On a rainy afternoon, she is clearing out a cupboard when she finds a cardboard box she has not opened in decades. Inside are letters from her early twenties: letters from friends, from her parents, from a young man she loved, and one letter that makes her sit down on the floor. It is an acceptance letter from a music school, offering her a place to study the piano. She never went.

She remembers why. Her father was ill at the time, and the school was far away. Her mother needed help at home, and there was little money. She took a job in an office, telling herself she would apply again in a year or two. She never did. The office job became a career in administration, which she did well for nearly forty years. She married, raised two children and has a good life. She still plays the piano at home, sometimes, for herself.

But sitting on the floor with the letter in her hand, she feels a wave of regret so strong that it surprises her. What would her life have been if she had gone? Would she have become a concert pianist? A teacher? Would she have been happier? She looks at the letter for a long time. She cannot decide whether she made a terrible mistake or the only sensible choice. She cannot even decide what the letter means.

Anneliese's afternoon touches one of the strangest features of human life. We live our lives forwards, making choices without knowing where they will lead. Only later, looking back, can we begin to see what they meant. And even then, the meaning keeps shifting. A short note in the journal of Søren Kierkegaard captures this better than almost anything else written on the subject.

A Note in a Journal

Kierkegaard kept extensive journals throughout his adult life, filling thousands of pages with reflections, arguments, prayers and observations. In a journal entry from 1843, he wrote a few sentences that have become among his most quoted. Here they are in my own plain translation.

"It is quite true, as philosophers say, that life must be understood backwards. But they forget the other principle: that it must be lived forwards. And if one thinks this through, it becomes more and more clear that life can never really be understood in time, because at no moment can I come to the full rest I would need in order to turn round and look back."

Kierkegaard is pointing to a basic tension in human life. On the one hand, understanding comes after the fact. We can only see the shape and meaning of events once they have happened, once we can look back on them. On the other hand, we must live forwards, making decisions now, before we can understand them. We are always acting in the dark, and understanding always arrives late.

And there is a further twist. Kierkegaard notices that we can never fully stop to look back, because life keeps moving. Even as we try to understand our past, we are still living, still changing, still adding new events that will change the meaning of the old ones. There is no final resting place from which to see our life whole, at least not while we are living it. Understanding is always partial and always provisional.

This short passage speaks directly to Anneliese on the floor of her cupboard. She made her choice at twenty-two, living forwards, without knowing where it would lead. Now, at sixty-one, she is trying to understand it backwards. But even now, she cannot quite settle on its meaning, because her life is still going on, and the meaning of that choice is still being shaped by what she does next.

Why We Cannot Wait to Understand

One practical lesson of Kierkegaard's words is that we cannot wait until we understand everything before we act. If we did, we would never act at all, because full understanding only comes, if it ever comes, after the action.

Many people get stuck here. They want to be sure before they choose. They want to know that the new job will be right, that the relationship will last, that the move will make them happy. They wait for a certainty that never comes, because it cannot come in advance. Meanwhile, life keeps moving, and the waiting itself becomes a choice, often a choice to stay where they are.

Kierkegaard's observation suggests a different attitude. Accept that you must live forwards, making your best choice with what you know now. Accept that you will only understand it later, and perhaps never completely. This does not mean choosing carelessly. It means choosing thoughtfully, and then letting go of the demand for certainty.

There is relief in this. If understanding always comes later, then nobody understands their choices fully at the time of making them. Not you, not the people you admire, not the people who seem so sure of themselves. Everyone is living forwards in the dark. The young Anneliese, choosing between the music school and her family, could not possibly have known what that choice would mean forty years later. Nobody could.

Think of a person walking at night along a country road with a small lamp. The lamp lights only a few steps ahead. The walker cannot see the whole road, the hills in the distance or the town at the end. But the lamp is enough to take the next step, and then the next. Looking back, at the end of the journey, the walker may understand the whole route. While walking, the few lit steps are all there is. Living forwards is a little like this. We rarely see far, but we can usually see enough for the next step.

The Past Is Fixed, but Its Meaning Is Not

Sartre added an important idea to this picture. In Being and Nothingness, he argued that, although the facts of our past cannot be changed, the meaning of our past depends partly on what we do now and in the future. Our present choices and projects give our past its significance.

Here is an example in the spirit of Sartre's idea. Imagine a young person who fails an important exam. At the time, it feels like a disaster. But suppose that, because of the failure, they take a different path and discover work they love. Looking back, the failure may come to mean "the turning point that led me to my real calling". Now imagine another person who fails the same kind of exam and gives up on all further study. For them, the failure may come to mean "the moment my life went wrong". The fact is the same. The meaning is different, and it was shaped by what each person did afterwards.

This means that we are not simply prisoners of our past. We cannot change what happened, but we can, through our present and future actions, influence what it means. A painful past can become, in time, part of a story of growth, compassion or courage, not because we pretend it was good, but because of what we have made of it.

For Anneliese, this idea opens a door. The music school letter does not have a fixed meaning. It could mean "the dream I gave up and always regretted". It could also mean "the moment I chose to care for my family, which shaped who I became". Or it could become something new, depending on what she does now. If she decides, at sixty-one, to take piano lessons again, to play for others, to teach children in her neighbourhood, the meaning of that letter changes. It becomes part of a longer story about a love of music that never died.

This is not a trick of positive thinking. Sartre was not saying that we should simply decide to feel good about our past. He was saying that the meaning of the past is genuinely unfinished, because we are unfinished. As long as we are alive, the story is still being written, and each new chapter can change how the earlier chapters read.

Regret in Both Directions

Regret is one of the most painful feelings connected with the past. It is the feeling that we should have chosen differently, that another path would have been better. Kierkegaard wrote about regret with sharp humour in his book Either/Or, published in 1843.

The first part of the book is written in the voice of a clever, restless young man who lives for pleasure and dislikes commitment. It opens with a collection of short sayings and fragments, and among them is a passage, sometimes called the ecstatic lecture, that mocks the very idea of avoiding regret. Here is part of it in my own translation: "Marry, and you will regret it. Do not marry, and you will regret that too. Marry or do not marry, you will regret it either way." The passage goes on in the same way about laughing at the world and weeping over it, about trusting a girl and not trusting her, and ends by calling this the sum of all wisdom about life.

It is important to remember that this is not Kierkegaard speaking in his own voice. It is a character, and Kierkegaard is partly criticizing that character's way of looking at life, which avoids real commitment by laughing at every choice. But the passage contains a painful truth. Every significant choice closes some doors, and so every significant choice brings the possibility of regret. There is no path through life that avoids it completely.

This can actually be freeing. If regret is possible whatever we choose, then the fear of regret should not be the main reason for our choices. We cannot choose a life without regret. We can only choose a life that we are willing to own, with whatever regrets come with it.

Some studies of regret suggest an interesting pattern. In the short term, people often regret things they did that went badly. But over longer periods, many people say that they regret more the things they did not do: chances not taken, words not said, dreams not pursued. This research describes general tendencies, not rules for every person. But it fits Anneliese's experience. Her strongest regret is not about something she did, but about something she did not do.

Regret, then, is not necessarily a sign that we chose wrongly. It may simply be a sign that we chose at all, that we closed a door and can still see its shape. Regret can also carry useful information: it may show us something we still care about, like Anneliese's love of music, which can guide our choices now.

Telling Your Story Honestly

All of us tell ourselves stories about our lives. We make sense of our past by arranging events into a narrative: this happened, then this, which led to this. These stories help us understand who we are. But they can also trap us, if we tell them in a fixed and unforgiving way.

Some people tell the story of their life as a tragedy, in which every good thing was lost and every choice was a mistake. Others tell it as a triumph, in which every difficulty led to success. Both kinds of story can distort the truth. The existentialists would encourage us to tell our stories honestly: to admit our real choices and their real effects, including our mistakes, without either drowning in regret or pretending that everything was for the best.

Telling the story honestly also means remembering the situation we were in when we made our choices. Anneliese, looking back from sixty-one, can see things she could not see at twenty-two. She knows how long her father's illness lasted, how her career developed, how her family grew. At twenty-two, she knew none of this. To judge her younger self fairly, she must remember what that young woman actually knew and felt: a sick father, a worried mother, little money, a far-away school. Seen in that light, her choice looks less like a failure and more like a loving, difficult decision.

It can help to imagine speaking to your younger self as you would speak to a young friend facing the same situation. Would you blame them for not knowing the future? Or would you understand that they did their best with what they knew? Often, we are far harsher with our past selves than we would ever be with anyone else.

Living Forwards

If life must be lived forwards, then the most important question is not "What did my past mean?" but "What will I do now?" The past matters, and understanding it can help us. But we live in the present, facing the future.

Living forwards means making choices without full understanding, as we have seen. It also means accepting that we are always beginning. No matter how old we are or what has happened, there is always a next step to take. Kierkegaard's words remind us that life does not pause while we work out its meaning. It keeps asking us to choose.

For some people, this is a call to stop looking back so much. If you spend most of your time replaying past mistakes, or imagining how your life could have been, you may be missing the life in front of you. A useful question is: what does my past teach me about what I want now? Then act on that.

For others, it is a call to begin something they have always postponed. Many people say they will do something "when the time is right" or "when I understand myself better". But the time is never perfectly right, and understanding comes after action. Living forwards means beginning before you are sure.

And for all of us, it is a reminder to be patient with meaning. The meaning of today's choices will become clearer in time. We do not need to understand everything now. We need only to choose, as honestly and thoughtfully as we can, and to keep living.

Four Lives, Backwards and Forwards

Samira is twenty-six and failed the final exam of a professional course she had studied for three years. At first, she sees it as proof that she is not good enough and that the three years were wasted. She stops talking to her classmates and spends weeks in a dark mood. A cousin reminds her of Kierkegaard's idea, which she learned about in a philosophy class, that life is understood only looking back, and that events are often understood only in the light of what comes after. Samira decides that the failure will not be the end of the story. She retakes the exam a year later and passes. Looking back, she says the failure taught her how to study, how to ask for help and how to keep going. It now means something different from what it meant at first.

Jakob is forty and recently divorced after twelve years of marriage. He keeps going over the past, asking what he should have done differently, blaming himself and his former wife in turn. A friend suggests that he tell the story of the marriage honestly, including the good years, without deciding yet what it all meant. Jakob writes it down over several evenings. He finds that the marriage was not simply a failure: it gave him two children he adores, many happy years and lessons about himself he needed to learn. The divorce is still painful. But he is starting to live forwards again, focusing on being a good father and building a new life.

Adebayo is seventy and has not spoken to his son for fifteen years, after a bitter argument about the son's choice of career. For years, Adebayo told himself the story that his son had betrayed the family. Now, older and in poorer health, he begins to see the story differently. He remembers his own harsh words and his refusal to listen. He realizes that the meaning of the argument is not fixed: it could remain the story of a broken family, or it could become the beginning of a reconciliation. He writes his son a letter, apologizing for his part. Weeks pass with no reply. Then his son calls. They meet, awkwardly, in a café. It is the start of something new.

Anneliese, from the beginning of this chapter, puts the letter back in the box, but she does not close the box. The following week, she finds a piano teacher and begins lessons again, working on pieces she loved as a young woman. A few months later, she offers to play at a community centre for older people, many of whom have their own lost dreams. When she plays, the music school letter no longer feels like only a loss. It feels like part of a long, unfinished love story with music, which she is still writing.

Samira, Jakob, Adebayo and Anneliese each looked back on a painful part of their past: a failure, a divorce, an estrangement, a dream not pursued. None of them could change what had happened. But each of them, by living forwards, changed what it meant.

Practical Steps

First, accept that understanding comes later. When you face a choice, remember that you cannot fully understand it in advance. Choose thoughtfully, and let go of the demand for certainty.

Second, judge your past self fairly. When you look back on a choice you regret, remind yourself what you actually knew and felt at the time. Speak to your past self as you would to a friend.

Third, notice what your regrets reveal. Ask what each regret shows you about what you still care about. Let that guide your choices now.

Fourth, remember that meaning is unfinished. When a past event feels like a disaster, ask: what could I do now that would change what this means?

Fifth, tell your story honestly. Avoid both the tragedy version and the triumph version. Include your real choices, their real effects and the situation you were in.

Sixth, take one step forwards. Instead of replaying the past, ask what one small action you could take today that would begin something new.

A Short Exercise: A Letter to a Younger Self

This exercise takes about thirty minutes. It helps you look backwards with understanding and then turn forwards.

Think of a choice from your past that you sometimes regret or wonder about. It might be a path you did not take, something you said or did not say, a relationship you ended or did not end. Write down, as clearly as you can, what the situation was at the time: how old you were, what you knew, what you feared, what pressures you faced, what you hoped for.

Now write a short letter to your younger self, the person who made that choice. Write as a kind, honest older friend. You might acknowledge how hard the situation was, recognize what they were trying to do and gently note what you have learned since. Avoid blaming them for not knowing what they could not have known.

Next, write a few sentences about what that choice means to you now. Then write a few more sentences about what it could come to mean, depending on what you do next. Is there some action you could take that would give it a new meaning, as Anneliese did with her music?

Finally, write one small step you will take this week to live forwards in light of what you have understood. It might be beginning something, contacting someone or simply letting go of a story you have told yourself for too long.

Keep the letter. You may want to read it again in a few months and notice whether the meaning of that past choice has changed.

Questions People Often Ask

"What if my past contains things that were done to me, not choices I made?" This is very important. Not everything in our past was chosen. Some people have experienced harm, loss or injustice that they did nothing to cause. Sartre's idea that we give meaning to the past does not mean that we are responsible for what others did to us. It means that, even with a painful past, we can still choose, over time and often with support, how we carry it and what we build. If your past includes trauma, please consider speaking with a qualified professional, who can help in ways a book cannot.

"Is it ever too late to change what my past means?" As long as we are alive, the story is still being written, and each new choice can add to its meaning. Adebayo's reconciliation with his son came after fifteen years. Anneliese's return to music came after forty. It is rarely too late to take a step that changes the shape of the story.

"How can I stop regretting a choice that cannot be undone?" Regret often eases when we judge our past self fairly, when we notice what the regret reveals about our values and when we act on those values now. It may not disappear completely, and that is all right. A little regret can be a sign of a life fully lived, with real choices and real losses. If regret becomes overwhelming or constant, talking with someone you trust or with a professional can help.

Chapter Summary

In a journal entry from 1843, Kierkegaard wrote that life must be understood backwards but must be lived forwards, and that we can never come to the full rest needed to understand it completely while we are living it. We must act before we understand, and understanding always comes later and remains partial.

Sartre added that, although the facts of the past cannot change, their meaning depends partly on what we do now and in the future. In Either/Or, Kierkegaard's pleasure-seeking character mocks the idea of avoiding regret, since every significant choice can bring regret. Some research suggests that, over long periods, people often regret things they did not do more than things they did. Judging our past selves fairly, telling our stories honestly and taking steps forwards can change the meaning of our past.

In the next chapter, we meet Albert Camus and his idea of the absurd: the clash between our need for meaning and a world that does not answer.