A small shift in how I think about time, purpose, and what comes next
After you step away from something that has defined your days for a long time, everything feels a little… quiet. Not in a bad way, just unfamiliar. For years, my time was spoken for before I even woke up. Meetings, emails, deadlines, travel, decisions. There was always something that needed attention, something that needed to be solved, something that made the day feel full before it even began.
Candidly, part of what led me here was a quieter realization toward the end of my career. I felt like I was no longer being actively valued in the way I once had been. Not in any dramatic or confrontational way, nothing that would make for a particularly interesting story. Just a gradual sense that the role I had played – and the experience I brought to it – was no longer seen in quite the same light. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, necessarily. These things shift over time. But once you notice it, you can’t really unsee it. It has a way of clarifying what comes next.
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t just a one-way change.
My passion for my work – and for the well-being of my colleagues – had never been in short supply. But as time passed and perceptions shifted, it became harder to see how the value of what I was doing then could compare to the value of what I might be able to do next. Not in some grand, world-changing way. But in quieter, more personal ways, like what I might be able to do for myself, for my husband, and for my community.
How I might take better care of myself by building a regular exercise routine that fit my life, instead of squeezing it in between busy days and constant travel. How I might, for the first time in my life, truly be a full-time wife to my husband – not in any antiquated or diminished sense, but in being present, in making him a priority in a way that had always competed with something else. And eventually, when the dust settled on this new chapter, what I might be able to offer to my community – with a renewed sense of energy, perspective, and enthusiasm for each day.
Before I stepped into this new season, I made a promise to myself, and to my husband, that for the first few months I wouldn’t commit to anything. No standing obligations, no new structures, no filling the calendar just to feel productive. I knew how easy it would be to slip back into the familiar rhythm of ordering my days the way I always had.
What I didn’t fully realize at the time was how important that decision would be. Because what I know now is that retirement isn’t just about stepping away from work. It’s about learning how to relate to time differently. At first, it’s tempting to try to recreate the structure you’ve always known. To build new routines, fill the calendar, and stay “productive” in ways that feel familiar. There’s a comfort in that. It feels like control. But slowly, almost without noticing it, something begins to settle in. You start to leave space in your days on purpose.
You linger a little longer over coffee in the morning. You take a walk without checking the time. You find yourself reading something not because it’s useful, but because it’s interesting. Your creative juices have time to flow onto a screen and become stories on their time, not when you have a rare minute or two and aren’t afraid of who might see them and what toll it might take on your career (a very real concern in these divisive times,) or when you aren’t too tired or preoccupied to just be still and think. You sit a little longer at the table after dinner, letting conversations stretch instead of watching the clock. And in those small moments, something else shows up: clarity, maybe. Or perspective. Or just a quieter kind of awareness that was always there, but was harder to access.
I’ve also learned that not every day needs to feel meaningful. Some days are simple, some are uneventful. Some feel like nothing much happened at all. That’s not something to fix. It’s something to accept, because it turns out that a life doesn’t need to be optimized to be well-lived.
There’s also been a surprising shift in how I think about planning my time. For so long, planning was about efficiency, and how to make the most of limited time: how to fit things in, how to make sure nothing was missed. Now, it feels more like curation.
What actually sounds appealing? What would make today feel like a good day? What can I leave open? That last question might be the most important one.
Leaving space is what allows something unexpected to happen. A conversation. A detour. A moment that wasn’t planned, but ends up being the one you remember. In a way, it’s not all that different from travel. The best trips are rarely the ones that are packed from morning to night. They’re the ones that leave room for wandering, and noticing, or for changing course.
Retirement, I’m learning, works much the same way. It’s less about filling your time, and more about how you choose to spend it. Maybe more importantly, it’s about how you allow it to unfold.
It’s funny what happens next – opportunities start to be presented to you. After spending a few months intentionally not committing to anything, I was recently asked to take on a leadership role in a group I’ve been part of for several years. What surprised me most was that I didn’t immediately say no.
In the past, my instinct might have been to assess the time, the responsibility, the obligation – and decline before I had the chance to think about whether I actually wanted to do it, but this time felt different. After some thought, and a few conversations, I realized that I do want to do it. Not because I feel like I should, and not because it fills time. But because it feels meaningful in a way I didn’t fully expect.
There’s something quietly exhilarating – and honestly, deeply validating – about being trusted by a group of thoughtful, capable women who see something in me worth asking for. Something in the way I show up. The same traits that shaped my successful career, now finding their way into something new. Maybe that’s another thing I’m learning.
Stepping away doesn’t mean stepping back entirely. Sometimes it just means creating enough space to choose what you step into next. I’m still figuring it out. I suspect I always will be. But for now, that feels like part of the point.
Red Chair Reflections 