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Once upon a time, there was a young man in his 30s, eager, hard-charging, and passionate. He delivered a box of business cards to a startup executive and convinced her to hire him to sell their new internet service. 

He did, they went public, everyone made gobs of money, it crashed, and everyone lost gobs of money.

People and careers endure, and for thirty more years, that young man convinced other companies to hire him. He built a fine career, grew a family, and established a reputation as a man of many skills who got things done.

Then I retired.

Like the witness protection program, I now have a new identity. No longer a savvy businessman I’m now just another passerby with a receding hairline and an aversion to small talk. And I absolutely love it.

I like who I’ve become

Seven months ago I woke up a better person. I didn’t know it at the time though, because I was hungover. Not from the retirement party the night before — that was nothing — I was hungover from forty-five years of stress.

The corporate world succeeds by applying pressure on its workers to perform. “Bigger, better, faster, more” is the battle cry of managers, of which I was one. My bosses pressured me to perform, and I pressured my managers and their staff to deliver. Managers don’t have a lot of other choices.

Change can be as subtle as a whisper

It came to me slowly as I grew into my new identity. “You’re so much more relaxed,” people told me. And what do you know? I am.

These days I sleep better and wake up energized. No more stomach-churning angst from worrying about project deliverables, deadlines, and deadbeats. Someone else has those worries now. 

I happily prance through my day without demanding results and accountability from anyone. I wait patiently at the checkout queue because I no longer need to rush. If I can’t get something done I’ll just finish it whenever I darn well please, and nobody cares.

I truly like myself. 

It’s not that I didn’t like myself before, but retirement has shown me that I don’t have to forcefully push life forward with all my strength, I can just ride along with it and quietly watch the countryside go by.

I am the sole authority on what’s important

Relaxed does not mean lazy. 

I write articles and short stories, read novels, build furniture, remodel kitchens and bathrooms, hike, explore, ride my bicycle, and travel.

Before retirement, I’d put in extra hours, delegate, reduce scope, and struggle to meet the ever-changing needs of a swollen portfolio of programs. Upper management would prioritize and re-prioritize until the cows came home (they never did). They’d have us drop one thing and pick up another, just to drop it for the next. It was like a corporate game of ping pong and I was the one getting paddled.

Retirement is the freedom to stop doing something

I love that I can pivot on a whim. I took a pottery class and loved it. But quit. I started organizing the garage, designing a pantry, writing a book. I quit them all. I’ll get back to them one day. Or not. Doesn’t matter. 

I decide what to do and when. 

Nobody will fire me if I stop working on my projects. That alone makes retirement a paradise.

I honestly don’t care what people think of me anymore

The most important lesson I’ve learned in retirement is to judge no one and accept no judgment. I wish I’d learned that long ago.

It started in elementary school, where the bullies pointed out my flaws and celebrated my failures. They did it to everyone of course, and it scarred many of us with a legacy of self-doubt. 

Judge no one and accept no judgment

Strangely, the fear of judgment helped make me successful. To avoid criticism, I worked harder, made fewer mistakes, kept my head down, and toed the line. At work, I was a pleaser and a perfectionist, characteristics cleverly designed to minimize exposure and failure.

Now I know there are much better ways to succeed than fear. In retirement, success is measured by happiness, not productivity. As I slowly shed the fear of failure I found that I was happier, nicer, and more empowered to take chances might never have taken before. 

I became fearless.

Fearlessness equals confidence which equals happiness

My writing exposes me to the potential of public ridicule, something I’ve spent my life avoiding. I shuddered with dread when I published my first articles and then discovered most people are quite civil — and the occasional critique can be helpful. 

I love the freedom that confidence and fearlessness bring. 

But I desperately miss the extremes 

That hard-charging young man, then in his 40s, watched his paper palace burn down in the dot-com crash of 2002. It felt like a funeral with nothing nice to say about the deceased. 

All he could do was think about the years before, pulling all-nighters at the office and closing gigantic deals worth millions. Flying to every city around the country for power lunches and presentations. The camaraderie, the excitement of changing the world. Life was explosive.

Nothing could be better. Nothing could be worse.

Retirement fills the potholes and smooths the bumps. It’s exciting in its own way — discovery, adventure, freedom — but lacking in the extremes. I live on a fixed budget. Gone is that sliver of hope that I could strike it rich in the business world and buy an enormous yacht. 

My retirement yacht will be a kayak. Dreams of skyrocketing fame will be the appreciation of my readers like you. Happiness will be hiking in the mountains and adventures to new lands.

Retirement is delightful, it just has less amplitude.

Conclusion

Once upon a time, an old man in his 60s wrote a story about love. It was poignant and meaningful and came from deep within his heart. Not shockingly explosive or depressingly tragic, it was happy, deliberate, non-judgmental, and fearless.

Just like him.