My truest taste of regret happened when I was just 16. I was a junior in high school and feeling fully overwhelmed by things I had no control over. That feeling came directly from living in a family unraveling at the seams, but I was too young to understand what was happening. My emotions were packaged up tightly, so I grabbed hold of things I did understand, and what I understood more than anything else was swimming.

I had been a competitive swimmer for almost all of my childhood. I had pushed my way near the top of my high school team, yet I was afraid to be there. I will never quite know if I was afraid of failing, afraid of being good or both. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t willing to live up to my full potential, and the worst part was that I knew it.

By the time I reached my third high school swim season, I was tired. I was tired of treading in one place, but mostly, I was tired of the lack of effort I was putting into the thing I loved. I couldn’t trust myself enough to try to be my best self, because there was no comfort in that. I carried a great burden because of my lack of self-worth, but I wouldn’t actually know that until much, much later — when I could no longer do anything about it.

I spent the entirety of my freshman and sophomore years of high school working tirelessly to dis-earn my spot in the lane with the fastest swimmers. I had goggle issues. I had shoulder problems. There were even moments when I quietly prayed I’d break my leg so I didn’t have to go to practice anymore.

But it wasn’t the swimming, the practices or even the racing or the other girls that was the problem. It was me.

However, as most things go, once I finally realised that, it was too late.

In the middle of my junior season, I went to a high school dance with a few other swimmer friends (the ones who actually longed to lead the lane) and my then-boyfriend. I wore a satin periwinkle above-the-knee dress with a velvet bodice and a matching cropped coat. I shoved tissues into the toes of my T.J. Maxx clearance rack patent-leather shoes because I had bought them a size too big. The night was supposed to be perfect.

But in the time that it takes to sneeze, everything changed.

The car I was riding in on the way home from the dance jerked and shuddered, and then it flew. It rolled across the grass median of the highway and struck another vehicle head-on. My blood-starved body wept on the asphalt until paramedics arrived. Two people lost their lives, and though I had instantly been paralysed from the chest down, because I survived, I was considered one of the lucky ones.

Months and even years later, I had no recollection of that night. It became a story that I told to people with little emotion or remorse. The pain of what I experienced rarely crept in because my brain never allowed me to see what really happened. What was lost. What was taken away.

Many years later, I’ve learned to live my new life from the seat of a wheelchair. I have done so with great purpose and gusto because, even though I don’t remember that night, I will always feel its rubble. The accident and my wheelchair brought about a new perspective on living, and I vowed to always live each day to its greatest potential — without new regrets.

Still, when my 16-year-old self’s physical wounds had healed, and I was lowered into my high school pool by my coaches and teammates, all that invigoration and determination melted away. My legs could no longer support me in my swim. They had grown skinny and frail. They were scarred and scathed. My lower half was pale and cold, and those legs would never bring me back to the lane with the fastest swimmers whom I loved to loathe.

I lost that moment. All the control. Forever.

My regret of holding myself back because I was afraid to try has followed me since. My swimming career was taken away before I was ready to give up fully. My life as I knew it — as a naïve teenage-sort-of-swimmer — was too.

I will never know what I could have done with the determination I have now. I will never know what I could have been. I used to dream about a different path, a different life for myself — but I have learned that doesn’t serve me. The energy and force it takes to dream something different for yourself should be used to make those changes in your everyday.

Because of a single moment of regret — that raw sense of pain and oozing remorse — I decided I would never allow myself to live another minute like that ever again. There isn’t enough time in this precious world to navigate the elusive “what ifs.” Take advantage of what you can control to push forward.

Feeling an unresolved sense of competition, I found my way back to the pool years later. Twice. First I began coaching swimming, which ultimately led me to coaching at the high school where I was once too shy to truly try. I kept a keen eye out for the girls who, like me, were afraid to succeed. Coaching became a way for me to teach those lessons I had learned to wide-eyed teens before it was too late for them too.

It led me to create new swimming goals for myself.

For two years straight, I trained to try to make the Paralympic swim team. At the time, I was a high school teacher, so I woke up each day at 3:30 a.m. just to get my practice in. I thrashed through the water each morning, day in and day out, because I had the passion to prove to myself and prove to the world how powerful it is to try.

I spent countless sums of money traveling to meets to help achieve my goal. And I performed. I broke several American records during this time and even landed a spot on the Parapan American swim team, which gave me the privilege of competing for my country and donning the highly coveted navy-blue American flag swim cap.

All of my effort led me to the Paralympic trials. I raced my heart out. I left it all in the pool. I strolled away feeling like I had done everything in my power to make the team. I had zero regrets.

I did not make the team.

I left the meet with a warm sense of pride. Yes, I was disappointed to not have attained the goal I had zoned in on for two years, but I knew I had done everything I could and left no room for that sneaky antagonist to settle in. I had no regrets about my performance, and I had the regret I felt after my accident to thank for that.

My 16-year-old mind had been in a constant spin of wondering what might have been if I made a different choice. How my life would be better if I would have only tried and trusted myself in the water, before I was broken. Paralysed. Back then, the world pushed me to be better, and I hid from it. However, I didn’t realise at the time that my regret would lead me to live the most championed life I could have ever imagined — and from the seat of a wheelchair.

As an adult, I have chosen paths that won’t leave me wondering. Some of those trails have been winding and treacherous, some have been painful, and some of them have been the result of wrong choices. But even a wrong choice has value if you can push forward from it, and that is always my goal.

Living with a ribbon of regret from decades ago tied around my finger, I have been able to accomplish many more things even bigger than I imagined. I’ve traveled abroad completely alone. I spent a summer in New Delhi. I met a man and fell in love and married him three months later. I gave birth to two healthy children when medical professionals weren’t sure it was possible.

Now, I wouldn’t change a thing.

The choices we make are often so rooted in active situations — what would happen if we do something? Yet, centering myself around steering clear of new regrets, I am more often asking myself what would happen if I don’t do something. What if I hadn’t trained so hard? Then I would have always wondered what I could have truly accomplished. What if I didn’t trust my gut? Then I wouldn’t have two beautiful sons and a loving family to go home to each night.

And still, I cannot fully escape regret. It’s like a long shadow at the end of a sunlit day. It moves and flows with me, attached directly to the base of my feet. No matter how fast I can go, I will never out-swim it.

But I’m no longer afraid of it. I now see my teenage regret as the very thing that has helped me live the best life I can. It lingers so close simply to remind me to make the best choices, live the best way and be the happiest I know how to be. It’s my guiding antagonist.

Ryan Rae Harbuck is the author of her memoir, “When I Grow Up I Want to Be a Chair.” She has been a teacher and a swim coach but enjoys being Mom the most. She resides in her hometown of Denver with her husband and two mudslinging boys. To learn more, visit her website at RyanRaeHarbuck.com.