My midlife crisis arrived without much drama. No sports car, no drastic career shift. Just a slow-burning restlessness that turned everything into a question.
Was I fulfilled? Did my life align with what I valued? Would I regret the choices I hadn’t made?
My friends were asking the same things. We met for coffee, traded existential concerns, and reassured each other that these thoughts were normal. Midlife questioning had a script, a structure. Everyone understood how it worked.
Now, at 53, I’m weeks away from retirement, and the conversation has shifted. The same people who once nodded in understanding now hesitate when I talk about leaving work.
“You’re retiring already?”
The word hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. It’s not judgment, exactly. It’s something closer to unease.
The questions that follow always sound supportive, but they carry a certain expectation.
“What’s next?”
A simple phrase, but the implication is clear. Retirement isn’t just about leaving work. It’s about proving that life still has structure, goals, purpose.
I don’t have a perfect answer, and that seems to make people uncomfortable.
The anxiety of an open schedule
For decades, my time has belonged to someone else. Meetings, deadlines, quarterly targets. Work shaped my days and, in many ways, my identity.
Now, the structure is gone.
My office is half-packed. HR has scheduled my exit interview. My colleagues are planning my farewell lunch. Everything is in motion.
The financial spreadsheets confirm that this is a responsible decision. My retirement plan is solid. My portfolio has been analyzed from every possible angle.
But I have doubts.
Not about money. Not about logistics.
About waking up in the morning and having nothing I have to do.
Letting go of productivity as identity
I listen when friends talk about their post-retirement plans. Consulting projects. Volunteer commitments. Travel itineraries packed with carefully scheduled adventure.
They are excited. They are ready. They are making sure retirement looks like progress, not decline.
The world expects that. Retirement isn’t treated as an ending — it’s positioned as an encore. Reinvention. A second act. Something that keeps us moving forward.
I’ve thought about following that path. I could keep one foot in the corporate world, take on advisory work, find a way to stay relevant.
But something about that feels wrong.
The past 30 years have been defined by proving my worth through output. Retirement doesn’t have to be a continuation of that. It doesn’t have to be optimized for maximum productivity.
Maybe stopping isn’t failure.
A different measure of time
My aunt retired 15 years ago. When people asked what she planned to do, she gave the same answer every time:
“I’m going to grow tomatoes.”
That was it. No reinvention, no elaborate explanation. Just a commitment to tending her garden.
At the time, I didn’t understand. Her colleagues certainly didn’t. They expected something more. Something that made retirement look as ambitious as the career she had left behind.
But she didn’t owe anyone an explanation.
She spends her mornings adjusting trellises, watching for the first signs of ripening fruit. She moves through her days with a rhythm that doesn’t answer to external deadlines.
Her tomatoes take the time they take.
Now, I understand.
Leaving the script behind
The midlife crisis at 42 felt like a rehearsal for something bigger. It forced me to ask questions about meaning, fulfillment, and identity. It made me consider what mattered beyond work.
But midlife was safe. It allowed for questioning while still maintaining structure.
Retirement is different. It’s a clean break. A blank page.
The world tells me to fill that space with purpose. To make sure my days look meaningful on paper.
But I am not interested in a carefully curated retirement.
I don’t need an encore. I don’t need another reinvention. I don’t need to prove that I am making the most of this time.
The tomatoes will take the time they take.
That’s the plan.
