Retirement: Learning How to Breathe Again

Keep your face always toward the sunshine – and shadows will fall behind you. – Walt Whitman

Well, I did it. After 45 years in the working world, I finally retired. There’s undeniable joy in knowing I’ll never again make that 35 minute commute, but that relief is tempered by a quiet sense of unease. This new chapter feels wide open—and a little intimidating.

Like many in my generation, I’ve long defined myself by what I did for a living. My work wasn’t just a job. It was a shorthand for who I was. Now that the work is gone, I’m left with a difficult question: without my career, who am I?

The first morning of retirement felt a little like waking up on a snow day when you were a child. The alarm clock didn’t ring. There’s nowhere I needed to be. And for a moment, that freedom was both thrilling and deeply unsettling.

Day One: The Absence of Urgency

For decades, my days were ruled by schedules, deadlines, and meetings. Calendars filled themselves faster than I could empty them. On the first day of retirement, the biggest surprise wasn’t the quiet—it was the total lack of urgency. Nothing was on fire. No one needed me right now.

Coffee tasted exactly the same, but I drank it at a pace normally reserved for vacations. I noticed the sunlight through the window. I spent an unreasonable amount of time petting the cats, who were thrilled and slightly suspicious by this sudden availability. This was something I never managed to do when I used to sprint out the door each morning.

Out of pure muscle memory, I checked the time and laughed when I realized it didn’t matter. I even opened Outlook to check my work email — I no longer had access. Sigh. Retirement: where the inbox is empty because it no longer exists.

No more emergency calls in the middle of the night. No more holiday work crises. No more media calls for quotes. No more last minute social media posts, and no more dealing with a cranky—and sometimes rude—public. That list alone feels like a retirement gift I’ll never need to return.

Then I glanced at the list of household projects I’d been saving for “after I retire” and felt overwhelmed. Where should I start? How will I ever get it all done? Then it dawned on me — I was recreating work stress all by myself. I was holding my breath. I felt my body tense and those familiar waves of anxiety wash over me.

Suddenly, the epiphany hit! If I don’t get to it today … oh well. There’s always tomorrow. Or the next day. Or maybe next week. I’m retired.

Day Two: Who Am I?

On the second day an uncomfortable question crept in: If I’m not my job, who am I? For so long, work wasn’t just something I did. It was how I introduced myself. It was how I measured my usefulness. It was how I understood my place in the world. It gave my days structure and my efforts purpose.

Without it, there’s a noticeable gap. It’s not one that can be filled with hobbies or a new checklist. It asks for something more difficult. It asks for reflection and redefining purpose on my own terms. For figuring out who I am when no one is waiting for an email, a meeting, or an answer.

I waited until 70 to retire, partly because I needed a full paycheck for as long as possible—but mostly because I loved my work. And yes, I know that sounds crazy. I genuinely loved the middle-of-the-night calls from the Police Chief or Fire Chief, alerting me to a critical incident.

My girls like to say I’m addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes with a crisis. They’re probably right. There’s something intoxicating about being needed right now, about jumping into action when the stakes are high and the clock is ticking.

Whether it was something relatively simple—alerting people to a crash on the freeway—or something far more serious, like issuing emergency instructions during a flood, there was always that same sense of urgency. A rush. A laser-sharp focus. And beneath it all, a powerful sense of purpose emerged. This matters. People are counting on me. What I do next could make a difference.

That was who I was. But who am I now? What is my purpose?

Day Three: Rediscovering Time

One of the best gifts of retirement was rediscovering time itself. Not just having more of it, but experiencing it differently. Time no longer feels like something to manage, compress, or outrun. It slows down, stretches out, and somehow becomes more generous.

In my working years, my time was always spoken for before the day even began. Mornings were measured in minutes, afternoons in meetings, and evenings in exhaustion. Now, a cup of coffee becomes an event rather than a pit stop. Reading a book no longer requires calculating how many pages I can squeeze in before the next obligation.

There’s also a quiet luxury in not having to watch the clock. Errands can wait. Phone calls don’t have to be returned promptly. If something takes longer than expected, that’s not a problem—it’s just how the day unfolds. Time, once a relentless taskmaster, has become a companion.

With that shift comes space to notice things I once rushed past. The unhurried conversation with a grandchild. The satisfaction of finishing something slowly sometimes in increments. The pleasure of doing nothing. Rediscovering time in retirement isn’t about filling every hour—it’s about finally learning how to breathe.

Day Four: Letting Go of Guilt

One unexpected challenge was the oddly familiar voice that kept whispering I should be doing something productive. I should be doing the dishes. I should be washing clothes. I should be tackling one of the many projects on my list. I should be doing … something.

That word “should” turned out to be hard to retire. Years of measuring my days by output and accomplishment didn’t disappear just because I retired. Sitting still felt suspicious. Rest felt undeserved. And that afternoon nap I took yesterday, well I’m probably going to hell for that.

I’m learning that productivity no longer requires an agenda.

Day Five: Small Pleasures

Retirement has a way of sharpening your awareness of small pleasures. An unhurried lunch. A favorite song playing at just the right moment. The quiet satisfaction of finishing something simply because I wanted to—not because it was due, expected, or on a calendar.

These moments were always there, but there was rarely time to notice them. Now, they step forward. They linger. They matter.

My time with grandchildren takes on a different significance. There’s no clock-watching, no mental juggling of what comes next. There’s just being present—listening to their stories, laughing at their discoveries, marveling at how something so small can bring such overwhelming joy. Ordinary moments — a shared snack, a silly game—become quietly extraordinary.

Day Six: Imagining the Future

By the end of the week, the question began to shift—from What did I do? to What might I do? My backward-looking habit of measuring worth by past accomplishments slowly is giving way to something more open and hopeful.

My hobbies resurfaced. Painting supplies that once sat untouched are taken out again, brushes cleaned, colors reconsidered. Crocheting can now be enjoyed without rushing. It can stretch out, row by row, without an eye on the clock. Writing — something that always had to wait until “there was time” — finally receives an invitation to stay.

I’m coming to the realization that retirement isn’t an ending—it’s an open calendar. One that doesn’t demand to be filled, but patiently waits to see what you’ll choose to write into it next.

Day Seven: A New Rhythm

The first week of retirement didn’t arrive with fireworks or grand revelations. Instead, it offered something quieter and infinitely more meaningful: a new rhythm. A rhythm that belongs entirely to me. It will take time to learn it, to trust it, and to feel fully at home within it.

Yes, I’m still wrestling with habits that have been wired into my brain for decades. On a trip back from the grocery store, I glanced at the gas gauge. It was at one-quarter full. “I need to stop at the gas station before Monday, before the 35 minute drive to work,” I thought. Then it hit me: Wait! I don’t need gas! I don’t have to drive to work! This quarter of a tank would easily last me a week. I laughed at myself. Then I laughed again. That little moment of realization felt like a small but powerful taste of freedom.

For those of you who retired before me, you’ve already wrestled with this. But I’m just learning that I no longer need to fill every hour with plans, errands, or productivity. I just need to show up, breathe, and start again—this time on my own terms.