Retirement is a milestone that looms for every worker, whether it arrives at 60, 70, or beyond.
It’s a phase as inevitable as it is transformative, yet it often arrives with a mix of anticipation and unease.
A former colleague of mine worked tirelessly until nearly 80, his mind sharp and his passion for challenges undimmed.
He saw every obstacle as a chance to grow. But when a family tragedy struck, followed swiftly by an incurable diagnosis, his vast earnings could not buy back time.
“I’ll drop dead the day I stop working,” he used to say, and though he faces his illness with no regrets, his story shook me. It prompted a deep reflection on what retirement truly means – not an end, but an invitation to reimagine life.
Retirement is not a curtain falling; it’s a stage awaiting a new act. The secret to a vibrant post-career life lies not in chasing bucket lists, often little more than scripts to answer curious onlookers, but in releasing habits that no longer serve us.
In letting go, we uncover a rhythm that hums with vitality and purpose.
Meet Wahid, whose journey after retirement offers a roadmap for this transformation, which some of us can associate with.
Wahid’s first lesson was his body’s quiet rebellion. After decades of early alarms and crowded commutes, he sank into his armchair, believing endless rest was his reward. But inactivity was a thief. Muscles weakened, joints creaked, balance faltered. The couch was no sanctuary, it was a trap.
So, Wahid began to move, not with the vigour of youth but with gentle intention. Mornings became walks through his neighbourhood, sunlight filtering through trees, birdsong filling the air.
He tried tai chi, chuckling through wobbly poses with newfound friends. Even lifting spice jars in his kitchen became a small act of defiance against time. His body, he realised, was not a relic to mourn but a partner to cherish.
Retirement severed the daily threads of connection – office banter, shared lunches, the hum of human presence. Days stretched silent, and loneliness settled like a heavy fog, as harmful as any vice.
But Wahid discovered that connection didn’t require grandeur. It bloomed in small moments: weekly teas with an old colleague, their laughter warming the café; a Quran study group where debates sparked joy; and volunteering at the mosque, where sorting donations wove him back into the community. Loneliness wasn’t his fate, it was a call to reach out.
Sleep, too, demanded care. For years, Wahid had treated it as a luxury, stolen by late-night worries or early meetings. In retirement, he saw its sacred role mending his body, sharpening his mind, steadying his heart. Yet erratic bedtimes and glowing screens disrupted his rest.
So, he crafted a ritual with rosehip tea, a darkened room, a consistent bedtime like a lighthouse guiding him to shore. Sleep wasn’t an afterthought but was his foundation.
Wahid’s kitchen became a reason for endless transformation. Decades of rushed meals, greasy takeaways, skipped lunches had dulled his palate and health. Now, he wandered morning markets, marvelling at fresh green kangkung and bright red chillies.
He roasted vegetables, drizzled them with sesame oil, savoured almonds and dark chocolate. Eating well wasn’t a chore but was a love letter to the life he still craved.
Wahid stopped dodging the
doctor. Annual check-ups, once dismissed as formalities, became his shield. A routine blood test caught a whisper of trouble, addressed before it roared.
Cholesterol and blood sugar weren’t just numbers, they were signposts for a longer journey. Ignoring them was reckless while embracing them was empowerment.
Old grudges like a friend’s betrayal and a family slight clung like damp leaves, stealing Wahid’s peace. He learned to let go, not with grand gestures but in quiet moments, imagining each hurt dissolving like mist. Forgiveness wasn’t for other. It was his liberation, a lightness that let him smile freely.
Money required care, too. Retirement savings weren’t infinite, and small indulgences like the daily teh tarik and unused subscriptions nibbled at his security.
Budgeting wasn’t about scarcity; it was about stretching resources to match his dreams. Tracking spending and finding joy in simple pleasures ensured his future stayed bright.
Technology, once an adversary, became a bridge. Smartphones baffled Wahid, apps tested his patience, but he refused to be left behind. A community centre tech class opened doors which enabled him to do video calls with distant grandchildren, and to online lectures that sparked curiosity. Learning wasn’t just for the young, it was his lifeline to the world.
Above all, Wahid rejected the notion that his purpose had faded. Retirement wasn’t a retreat but an empty slate. He mentored young entrepreneurs at his old cooperative, their ambition rekindling his own.
He wrote stories of his kampung childhood, pages that might outlive him. He planted a garden, each
seed a promise to the future. Purpose wasn’t a job; it was the spark of showing up.
As spring bloomed in his garden, Wahid stood taller, his hibiscus thriving, his tea warm in his hands. “I didn’t retire from life,” he said, eyes bright. “I retired to it.”
The years after 60 aren’t about decline, they are about choice. By letting go of stillness, solitude, grudges, and doubts, Wahid found a rhythm that felt like home.
If you are standing at this threshold, the habits you shed aren’t losses, rather, they’re keys to a life that glows. Retirement isn’t the end of your story, it could be the dawn of a stunning new success you never knew you could be.
Step forward. Move, connect, forgive, dream. The stage is yours, start with a scribble and it will turn out to be a masterpiece.
Dr Bhavani Krishna Iyer holds a doctorate in English literature. Her professional background encompasses teaching, journalism and public relations. She is currently pursuing a second master’s degree in counselling. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
