Several years ago I retired and I am only just beginning to admit it, embrace it, and, frankly, throw it the long-overdue celebration it deserves. (There really should be a cake. Possibly multiple cakes. Definitely parties. Lots of parties that include all my favorite people and fancy sweet cocktails. Little vacations in a glass with fruity frou-frous.)
Prior to Covid-19, I hadn’t given much thought to when I would retire. I assumed it would be sometime in my sixties, vague, distant, and comfortably theoretical. As an early Gen Xer now in my late 50s (a demographic known for both independence and an alarming ability to remember life before the internet yet still able to reset the Wi-Fi), my 60th trip around the sun felt far away.
And then…2020 happened.
Covid-19 was at peak virulence. My daughter was a high school senior, the last of the big, choreographed exits. My son was deep into his junior year of college over 2000 miles away becoming a person I only partially recognized in the best of ways. The house was getting quieter. The kids were becoming more theirs and less mine. I was just beginning to understand what that meant for me and how to embrace it. Then suddenly, overnight, our home transformed into something between a co-workspace, a classroom, a café, and a mildly chaotic youth hostel.
As the pandemic spread, so did my family—physically—into every corner of the house. My husband took up residence in my home office (we’re still negotiating that territorial dispute), while my daughter attended school from her bedroom, the back patio, and frequently the kitchen island which sits at the center of all household traffic. More like a roundabout that happens to have seating, turning it into a tiny Times Square with homework spread everywhere.
We were incredibly lucky to have a spacious backyard, which quickly became headquarters for my daughter’s carefully curated “pandemic bubble.” (Fun fact: a “small bubble” of teenagers expands exponentially after 8 p.m. even during a pandemic)
They gathered almost daily—and nightly—throughout her senior year and the summer that followed. The covid-distancing between them shrunk and the volume and laughter increased by day. My once-quiet sanctuary, at least for 8-10 hours during weekdays, became a 24/7 soundtrack of Zoom calls, laughter, gossip, tears, and what I can only assume were very important discussions until 3am about life and the most recent Tik Tok.
In hindsight, I am deeply grateful it was our home that became the hub for my daughter’s bubble. I cherish every memory of that strange, suspended year. But in the moment, it felt temporary, noisy, and a little like living inside a group chat.
Professionally, I adapted the way many of us did—by relocating from room to room like a corporate nomad. I gradually scaled back my consulting work on a brand protection program I had built and grown—tracking down and removing online counterfeit resellers and brand imposters of HP printer ink and media (which, if you’ve never thought about it, is a surprisingly dramatic underworld made up of global pariahs).
I told the company it might be time to find my replacement and transition the program internally, assuming I’d wind down and then move on to the next opportunity. For over 25 years, that had been my rhythm: leave corporate America, build something, pivot, repeat. My network always came through. It was a system that worked so well, I stopped questioning it. (Another fun fact: Gen Xers were basically the beta testers for “career agility.”)
But the world had flipped. Instead of planning my empty nest era or my next professional chapter, I was helping my daughter navigate a senior year defined by unprecedented isolation, limited friend bubbles, uncertainty, and Zoom. A world where prom dresses stayed in closets and some of the most anticipated events of her life simply didn’t happen. My focus became simple: be present, get through this, and come out stronger on the other side.
So, I paused my career.
I just didn’t realize at the time that it wasn’t a pause—it was a full stop.
Meanwhile, college acceptance letters arrived, and with them came a quiet but profound realization: time is not as predictable as we like to pretend. I found myself writing more, reflecting more, and waiting—like everyone else—for “normal” to return.
Here’s the thing: I’m no longer entirely sure what “normal” even means. The pandemic may have ended, but the weirdness didn’t disappear, it just evolved. (Kind of like how we all suddenly became amateur epidemiologists, banana bread evangelists, sourdough bread bakers, panic gardeners, and Zoom etiquette experts overnight.)
What did emerge and stick for me was a new rhythm. One without meetings, deadlines, or someone else’s agenda. No rushing to pick up kids, no wondering where they are or who they’re with—because, plot twist, they’re adults now and somehow functioning quite well without me.
My priorities shifted. And surprisingly…that felt peaceful.
The harder adjustment was identity. For most of my life, what I did defined a large part of who I was. Without a job title, I had to figure out how to measure my value on my own terms—a slightly unsettling but ultimately freeing exercise.
Before all this, my husband and I had casually fantasized about retirement in that glossy, “the world is our oyster” way. We had a running bucket list, vague timelines, and the assumption that we’d figure out the details later. (We had spreadsheets—many spreadsheets. Nothing says “we’re relaxed about the future” like 14 tabs of financial projections.)
My husband has three more trips around the sun under his belt, so I always figured he’d clock out first—of work not life of course, we’re very pro-living. I had a loose vision for myself: maybe some consulting, some passion-project nonprofit energy, something that felt less like a job and more like a personality. The only thing missing was any actual plan. We never seriously defined the when or the what does this actually look like.
After my daughter left for college and masks slowly disappeared, I dipped a toe back into the job market. I interviewed a few times, even received offers—twice. And each time, I found myself thinking, Hmm…no.
Instead, I filled my time in ways that felt meaningful and, frankly, more aligned with who I had become. I painted, not well. I volunteered at a food bank, the Ronald McDonald House, and the San Diego Zoo (where I learned and shared new fun facts: like giraffes only need 30 minutes of sleep a day, Hippo’s are nocturnal, and lemurs are primates but not related to monkeys).
I wrote. I managed our investments. I traveled with my husband any time I wanted, and whenever possible turned his work trips into opportunities for mini-adventures with one or both of our kids.
And somewhere along the way, working for someone else stopped being appealing. Not dramatically. Just quietly, definitively.
For a while, when people asked what I did, I defaulted to my old identity: marketing and business consultant for tech companies. It was easier. Familiar.
But not entirely true anymore.
Now, I don’t hesitate.
When someone asks, I can say—with confidence, pride, and maybe just a hint of delight:
“I’m retired.”
And yes, there should absolutely be cake and there will be many more adventures ahead. Life can be so much more than a title.
