We all carry regrets—but they aren’t distributed equally. Some of us lie awake at night wishing we hadn’t done something; others dwell on the chances we didn’t take. Interestingly, this divide often falls along gender lines—especially when it comes to sex.
Recent research in evolutionary psychology reveals a striking and consistent pattern: men are more likely to regret missed sexual opportunities, while women are more inclined to regret the sexual experiences they did have. At first glance, this might sound like a tired stereotype or a punchline from a stand-up routine. But beneath it, researchers see something far more intriguing—a deep well of evolutionary strategy, cultural programming, and existential questioning.
Jordan Peterson has touched on this topic in interviews and lectures, but if you’re looking for an academic source, one study stands out: “Sexual Regret: Evidence for Evolved Sex Differences” by Andrew Galperin, Martie Haselton, and colleagues, published in the Archives of Sexual Behavior. Their findings reinforce the idea that our regrets about sex may not be random—they might be the psychological residue of biological investment and reproductive risk.
This third post in our series, “Sex, Sense, and the Sacred,” dives into the complexity beneath the data—where biology meets philosophy, where desire is both a gift and a trap, and where regret becomes a mirror reflecting what it means to be human.
The Biological Ledger: The Uneven Cost of Sex
Let’s start with the body. From a biological standpoint—however one understands its origins—sex involves unequal costs and consequences for men and women.
- For men, the biological investment in reproduction is relatively minimal: one act, millions of sperm, and little physical risk. Lower biological cost, higher potential for widespread genetic contribution.
- For women, the investment is significantly higher: pregnancy, childbirth, nursing, and long-term caregiving. The cost of a single reproductive decision can shape years of her life.
Whether one sees this asymmetry as the product of evolutionary pressures or intelligent design, the outcome is the same: biology favors different strategies for each sex. Over generations, these strategies appear to have shaped distinct behavioral patterns:
- Men, generally, are more inclined toward pursuing sexual opportunities.
- Women tend to be more selective, weighing potential risks and seeking partners who can share the burdens—socially, emotionally, or materially.
This is not merely cultural. Across societies and historical periods, this pattern shows remarkable consistency, suggesting it’s deeply rooted in our biology, however that biology came to be. It’s not a moral judgment—just a reflection of differing reproductive stakes.
And yet, the biology alone doesn’t explain everything. Culture, consciousness, morality, and personal experience all interact with our embodied nature in complex ways. Whether we are the product of chance and natural selection, or of divine design with evolutionary mechanisms, the core truth remains: sex carries different risks and meanings for different bodies—and that has shaped how we experience desire and regret.
Of course, it’s important to emphasize that these patterns represent general trends, not absolute rules. Every study of human behavior comes with variation and outliers. Not all men are risk-takers, and not all women are cautious selectors. There are women who regret missed opportunities and men who regret actions taken. Cultural context, personality, personal history, and even individual values play enormous roles in shaping sexual behavior and regret. What biological or psychological frameworks offer are probabilistic insights, not deterministic blueprints. They help us understand broad tendencies—not predict the choices of every individual.
The Psychology of Regret
Regret is one of the most potent emotional forces we experience. It doesn’t just haunt us—it teaches, warns, and reshapes the way we navigate the future. But like most things human, regret is far from simple.
Psychologically, regret arises when we imagine that a different choice could have produced a better outcome. It is, at its core, a counterfactual emotion—one rooted not only in what did happen, but in what might have been. And contrary to popular belief, regret is not just about making bad decisions. Studies now show that even forced choices—decisions made under constraint or necessity—can produce regret, regardless of outcome. The emotional aftermath of a decision often hinges as much on attribution and meaning as it does on the result itself.
One of the clearest dynamics in regret research is the distinction between action and inaction. In the short term, people tend to regret what they did—mistakes, impulsive moves, words spoken too quickly. But over the long term, what rises to the surface are regrets of inaction—missed opportunities, roads not taken, words never said. This pattern seems to grow sharper with age, as the weight of what might have been settles in more deeply.
In the realm of sexual regret, this distinction becomes particularly gendered:
- Men often say, “I should have made a move,” or “I missed my chance.”
- Women more frequently say, “I wish I hadn’t done that,” or “I didn’t feel safe or respected.”
One tends to regret inaction, the other action. It’s as if biology, psychology, and culture each hand us a different script.
Why this difference? From a biological standpoint, the stakes of sexual behavior have historically been unequal. A woman’s poor decision might result in pregnancy, social stigma, or long-term vulnerability. A man’s missed opportunity, by contrast, might be just that—a missed opportunity to pass on his genes. Whether these instincts were shaped by evolution or embedded by design, the psychological residue lingers. Regret becomes a shadow of our biology, cast across our memories and choices.
This connection between regret and reproductive risk is further illustrated by findings from the Galperin et al. study, which noted that lesbian and bisexual women reported less regret over casual sex than heterosexual women. One likely explanation is that the risk of pregnancy is significantly lower, which reduces the potential long-term consequences of a single encounter. Additionally, these women often report higher levels of sexual satisfaction, which may further buffer against regret. The implication is clear: when the biological stakes are lower, the emotional aftermath changes. Regret, in many cases, appears not to stem from the act itself, but from its potential cost.
But let’s not reduce regret to a binary. It’s not a monolith. Regret is multidimensional and often entangled with other emotions—anger, disappointment, even satisfaction. Some regrets stem from our own choices (self-attribution), others from external constraints (external attribution), and still others from a complex interplay of both. You can regret an act and still feel content with its outcome. You can feel anger at a missed chance and yet know it was the right call. In this way, regret becomes less a red flag and more a lens—through which we see not just the past, but the values and vulnerabilities that shape us.
Understanding the psychology of regret helps us more than just making peace with our past—it helps us make wiser, more compassionate decisions in the present. And in the domain of sex, where the stakes are high and the scripts are often inherited, that kind of understanding might be the most important step of all.
But We’re Not Just Biology
At this point, you might say, “Isn’t all of this a bit deterministic? Are we just sophisticated animals acting on instinct?”
The answer, of course, is no. Our entire moral framework—our capacity for ethics, accountability, even regret—presupposes that we possess free will. That we are capable of overcoming our impulses, not merely obeying them. Biology may inform us, but it does not define us. We are not prisoners of our programming.
Humans are unique in this regard. We build civilizations, compose poetry, craft philosophies, and make decisions that often run counter to our biological urges. But while we are not only biological creatures, we should be careful not to pretend we’re entirely separate from biology either. Culture is layered on top of biology, not a replacement for it. Ignoring that foundation—especially when it comes to sex—leaves us unmoored from the realities of embodiment.
In many ways, the moral conversations surrounding sex are not just about the act itself, but about its context and consequences—for offspring, for families, for communities. Morality arises as a kind of mediator between biological drives and social flourishing. It’s a framework for integrating desire with responsibility.
Consider animals: they act on instinct, without the ethical overlays we constantly wrestle with. We don’t assume animals feel regret in the same way humans do, because they lack the complex moral apparatus to process their choices. This distinction might offer a helpful model: animals as biology alone, and humans as biology plus something more—free will, self-awareness, perhaps even the imago Dei.
It’s a working theory, but a useful one: we are not merely animals, and not quite angels. We are something in between—creatures of the earth with minds that reach toward the transcendent.
Or, to borrow from pop culture: we are not quite androids, and not yet fully Vulcan. Like the Vulcans in Star Trek, we carry powerful instincts and emotions just beneath the surface, channeling them through discipline, reflection, and reason. But unlike androids, we aren’t emotionless by design. We are always in the tension—managing, not erasing, our nature.
And that tension? That’s where ethics lives. That’s where humanity begins.
The Regret That Isn’t Spoken
Many people—especially men—carry sexual regret that they rarely, if ever, voice. Cultural narratives have long painted male sexuality in broad strokes: men are supposed to be always eager, always grateful for any opportunity, always emotionally detached. The script is clear: pursue, perform, don’t feel.
So when a man says, “I didn’t want to,” or “I felt used,” or “I thought it would mean more,” it challenges that story. It violates the unwritten code of masculinity. And because these confessions are so rarely heard, many men assume they are alone in feeling them. They’re not. The emotional landscape of male sexuality is underexplored, underdiscussed, and often misunderstood. Yet it’s very real—quietly shaping decisions, relationships, and self-worth in ways that are rarely acknowledged in public discourse or private conversation.
If I’m being honest, most of the regret I carry relates not to what I did, but to what I didn’t do—missed opportunities, moments where fear or uncertainty held me back. And even now, as I look toward the future, part of my fear is tied to that same theme: the possibility of more missed chances, more silence, more paralysis.
That’s not to say I don’t carry regret for things I did. I do. And not all of those experiences were entirely voluntary. Those, too, have left their mark—etched into memory, identity, and body. The voluntary sexual acts I once regretted have, over time, softened. Some no longer feel like regrets at all. They are just chapters in the story.
But the involuntary experiences—that’s harder to untangle. Do I regret them because they left me feeling powerless? Or because, for better and worse, they’ve shaped who I am? It’s hard to say. Regret isn’t a straightforward emotion. It’s not a clean ledger of right and wrong, joy and shame. It’s a tangle of memory and meaning, pain and becoming.
I am who I am because of my experiences—all of them. Some of those experiences have led to burdens I still carry. But they are mine. Would I be better or worse without them? I’ll never know. What I do know is that I must live with the cards I’ve been dealt. And I choose not to dwell in regret, but to learn from it—not as a weight, but as a teacher. Regret, after all, isn’t just about sorrow. It’s about reflection. And sometimes, redemption.
Desire, Risk, and the Lessons of Regret
Desire is not inherently wrong. In fact, it’s one of the most beautiful—and powerful—elements of being human. It animates us, connects us, drives us toward relationship and meaning. But desire without reflection becomes compulsion, and compulsion—when fed by cultural scripts, internal pressure, or even biological momentum—can carry us to places we didn’t intend to go. Places where regret waits quietly in the aftermath.
So what do we do?
We begin by recognizing that sexual regret is not abnormal or shameful—it’s instructive. Regret is a signal. It points to our unmet needs, our unspoken expectations, the stories we were telling ourselves in the moment. If we’re honest, it can push us to ask better, deeper questions:
- Why did I do that?
- What was I hoping for?
- What story was I living out—and is it still serving me?
- What story do I want to tell next time?
Regret, when we allow it to speak, can become a guide—not to shame, but to wisdom.
But navigating that wisdom is complex. For men, avoiding regret often means taking more chances, increasing their efforts to seize opportunities—hoping not to miss out. For women, regret avoidance can have the opposite effect: turning down potential experiences out of caution, only to later wonder whether something meaningful was lost.
Is waiting for marriage the solution? Is reserving sex for one person, for life, the surest way to avoid regret? Perhaps—but perhaps not. While that model may offer relational stability and help protect against certain forms of emotional fallout, it doesn’t erase regret. It doesn’t guarantee mutual satisfaction, emotional safety, or even the absence of missed opportunities. Regret may simply be part of the human condition, an inescapable feature of beings who are finite, fallible, and constantly making choices in a world full of unknowns.
And now, with shifting cultural landscapes, newer generations are challenging longstanding social norms around sex and marriage. Whether they’re reinventing or rediscovering, we don’t yet know the long-term outcomes. But one form of regret looms larger than any single sexual decision: the regret of isolation.
I suspect that in the end, being alone—truly disconnected—may become the deepest regret of all. Because we are, after all, fundamentally relational creatures. Whatever the shape of our desire, it finds its fullest meaning not in pleasure alone, but in connection. And that, perhaps, is where our most enduring choices—and our most significant regrets—will be found.
The Need for Conversations
Regret becomes most dangerous when it’s forced into silence—when we’re not allowed to name it, share it, or make sense of it with others.
In many religious communities, conversations about sex are often reduced to purity codes, abstinence pledges, and blanket prohibitions. In secular contexts, the discourse can feel equally shallow—focused on consent checklists and casual encounters, with little room for emotional reflection or existential consequence. Neither model invites the kind of honesty and depth that regret demands. Neither gives us the space to say, “That hurt,” or “That didn’t mean what I thought it would,” or “I thought I was following the rules, but I’m still wounded.”
What we need are real, honest spaces—where men and women can speak openly about their experiences, their confusion, their pain, and yes, their regrets. Not as a form of confession in the shame-based sense, but as an act of human growth. So that we can reframe desire not merely as function, but as formation. So that we can ask, What does this experience reveal about me? About others? About what I truly need, or fear, or long for?
Many of our moral frameworks around sex arise from exactly this point: the high emotional and psychological cost of sex—especially when mishandled. Regret, shame, longing, and betrayal are not minor consequences; they are formative. And because the stakes are so high, societies have responded with guardrails, often codified as morality. Those rules may take different forms across cultures and eras, but they usually point to the same underlying concern: how do we protect something that can so easily go wrong?
And yet, morality without understanding becomes fragile—easily abandoned or rigidly enforced. As I wrote in an earlier post, even within Christianity, we are called to wrestle with difficult truths, not to retreat into slogans or silence. If the rules God has given us are truly wise, then they are not arbitrary. They serve practical, even compassionate purposes. But we must be willing to seek out those purposes, not just obey the rules for their own sake. That means asking the hard questions. That means talking about what hurts. That means naming the regret—and then asking what it’s trying to teach us.
These things may challenge certain moral narratives that frame regret as the inevitable result of deviating from traditional norms. But if regret correlates more closely with risk and outcome than with moral transgression, then our frameworks for sexual ethics may need reconsideration. From a theological perspective, this suggests that sexual morality should be shaped not solely by rigid prescriptions, but by a deeper understanding of vulnerability, responsibility, and human flourishing.
Perhaps regret is less a divine punishment for breaking a rule, and more a natural consequence of choices made without reflection or context. If that’s the case, then our task as moral beings is not merely to avoid certain acts, but to understand why we do what we do, and what the cost—physical, emotional, and spiritual—might truly be. And that means engaging with real data, not just doctrine; with real stories, not just slogans.
Regret as a Gift?
What if regret is not a burden but a guidepost?
In The Princess Bride, Westley says, “Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” That may sound bleak—but it’s profoundly human. Regret hurts. But it also points to something more: that we are creatures with consciences, desires, and the capacity to learn. In the end, maybe we don’t need to fear regret. Maybe we need to listen to it. Because regret, like desire, is part of what makes us human. And being human is still something holy.
Next in the series: “Beyond Adam and Eve? Rethinking Biblical Categories of Gender” — examining whether Scripture supports a binary view of gender, or something more layered and complex.
Resources
- Galperin, A., Haselton, M.G., Frederick, D.A. et al. Sexual Regret: Evidence for Evolved Sex Differences. Arch Sex Behav 42, 1145–1161 (2013). https://doi.org/10.1007/s10508-012-0019-3
- The Red Queen: Sex and the Evolution of Human Nature by Matt Ridley
- Trivers, Robert, ‘Writing Trivers’s 1972 Theory of Parental Investment and Sexual Selection’, in David M. Buss (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Human Mating (2022; online edn, Oxford Academic, 26 Jan. 2023), https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780197536438.013.1.
- Pazhoohi F. Parental Investment Theory. In: Shackelford TK, ed. The Cambridge Handbook of Evolutionary Perspectives on Sexual Psychology. Cambridge Handbooks in Psychology. Cambridge University Press; 2022:137-159.
- Matarazzo O, Abbamonte L, Greco C, Pizzini B and Nigro G (2021) Regret and Other Emotions Related to Decision-Making: Antecedents, Appraisals, and Phenomenological Aspects. Front. Psychol. 12:783248. doi: 10.3389/fpsyg.2021.783248
Excerpt
Why do men and women regret sex differently? Evolution, culture, and emotion collide in the psychology of sexual regret. In this post, we unpack the biology of desire, the silence around male vulnerability, and how regret—when explored honestly—can become a guide, not a burden, in the journey of becoming human.
Treasures of the Elysian Fields 
Leave a comment