Coming to terms: my battle with retirement
Tom Brady did it at 45. Serena Williams was 40. Macaulay Culkin retired at age 14. So why did I choke on the word?
When I posted 6 years ago on Facebook that I'd quit my corporate job, my friends were quick with their congratulations. GIFs and stickers wishing me luck in my retirement flooded the comments.
Who said anything about retirement?
"Not retired," I replied, growing more steamed with every post.
"They're just happy for you, honey," said Felix, my silver-haired partner, from his recliner.
I grunted
Jeopardy was on. Our nightly routine is eating dinner in front of the evening news and the venerated game show in between ads for Shingrix, Ensure, and Prevagen Memory Capsules. Was this my demographic now?
With every retirement wish, my muscles atrophied, my spine rounded, my mental capacities de—de? Declined? Is that the word? No, diminished. That's it. That was the feeling. My friends were happy for me, but I felt diminished.
The feeling lingers
Last month, Felix and I met some of his old friends in New Hampshire for a holiday dinner. I knew one couple but was introducing myself to everyone else. Leaning across the table, careful not to singe our sleeves over the blue-stoned firepit centerpiece, we got acquainted in the usual ways.
ME: How do you know Felix? Tell me all the juicy stuff.
THEM: What do you do? Are you retired?
A fair question at a table of 60-somethings, but still, even at 62, the label was triggering. I couldn't tell if it was the gas flames or the heat my mind generated searching for a satisfying answer—not for them, but for me.
"I left my professional career in 2018," I said, quickly adding an emphatic disclaimer. "But I'm working harder than ever!"
Can’t we call it something else?
Retiring means withdrawing, receding, or leaving professional work—usually due to age. I met none of these criteria. No, really. I didn’t.
Freed from a stressful career, I found a new propulsive energy. No gold watch. No pension. Years away from social security checks, I was working harder than I had in a long time—busy reinventing myself and my career.
It used to be you worked, and then you retired, almost immediately into old age. But something has happened to completely change the landscape, especially for women. —
, Your Midlife Matters
My former boss had suggested "pivot" as an alternate description. I'd also heard the neologism “pro-tirement” used to describe the bridge between hustling middle-aged manager and shuffling senior citizen.
Alana Kirk, author of Midlife Redefined, suggests the term re-fire-ment in this Substack post, which is closer to my experience. A few months into my—whatchamacallit—I even made up my own word: reinspirement.
I'd hoped re-inspire-ment would catch on, but honestly, I doubt the moniker matters much. As a <ahem> retired <fine. happy?> technology marketer, I've named many widgets, and in the process, I've often made this argument: no one cares what it's called; what matters is that it works.
My version of retirement
When I departed from my professional career, I rested for maybe a minute before racing to find a new purpose. Not retired, my inner saboteur whispered over and over again, as though her life depended on my ambition.
I set goals with detailed strategies, actions, and metrics. I networked and made PowerPoints. I chased validation online and IRL. I leaped into an MFA program, intent on becoming the writer I "might have been."
"What do you write?" The inevitable follow-up question after "What do you do?" I’ve stumbled over an answer.
I'm an essayist, freelancer, developmental editor, writing group facilitator, and Substack publisher. I'm writing a memoir, building a platform, establishing my business.
Until very recently, I’ve tried to legitimize my creative endeavor—my not-retired-but-sort-of-retired existence—with professional titles and objectives. In my battle against my own misperceptions of diminished relevance (driven by prevalent ageism and retiree stereotypes), I lost sight of what I'd actually set out to do.
A purposeful life
In my 2018 resignation email, I'd said I wanted to enjoy my Vermont farmhouse, hike the White Mountains, spend more time with my aging parents, and work on my writing.
Sitting by the woodstove, Rangeley's soft yellow head on my feet, I counted my achievements by the starry glimmer of Christmas tree lights. One by one, my strident opposition to retirement melted like snowflakes on my tongue.
In the last year, I helped my mom recover from a fall and celebrated my dad's 90th birthday. I welcomed my first grandchild, rushing to the hospital mid-day, mid-week without taking meetings in the waiting room. I celebrated my son's marriage, traveled with friends, and mountain-biked with Felix. I wrote.
I did not once suffer the Sunday Scaries. I’m prioritizing my personal growth, my physical and mental health, and my relationships.
Call it whatever you want— re-fire-ment, re-inspire-ment, or retirement—if this is how it works, I'm in.
It’s 8 degrees today. Snow is swirling outside my window. But while I wait for the 200 tulip bulbs I planted in October to bloom in the spring, I am blooming.
Work hard. Be brave. Believe.
Catherine
love this
Brillant—keep blooming!