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Retirement and Aging Checklist
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Reflection on Esther 4:10–16
“And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?” — Esther 4:14
The story of Esther reveals how unexpected circumstances can become divine appointments. She was placed in a royal palace not for comfort or status, but for courage and intercession at a time of great peril. Her moment of decision—whether to risk death by approaching the king or remain silent—reflected the deeper question every person must face: What is the purpose of this season in my life?
Who would have thought that I, of all people, would choose to stay in this foreign land—alone—after my younger sister’s passing? She was supposed to be my companion in old age, my emotional and logistical support system. Ten years my junior, yet she was the one who succumbed first to illness. And here I remain, quietly navigating life as an aging man in a country that adopted me, but no longer mirrors my generation.
There are reasons only God fully knows. He redirects quietly and gently, not always with explanations, but often with peace. I now see that I’ve been placed here, for such a time as this. Not for grand public acts like Esther’s, but for personal clarity, spiritual refinement, and quiet obedience.
Mornings are when I thrive. My energy blooms with the sun. I meditate, take long walks, and tend the yard. These routines require effort, but they keep my body from stiffening and my spirit from sinking. Still, the fatigue creeps in after noon, a stupor that no amount of reading or scrolling or driving seems to overcome.
There was a time I resisted napping, thinking it unproductive, a waste of time. But now, I embrace it as God’s way of renewing me. Sleep is not laziness; it’s medicine. It resets the nervous system, repairs cellular fatigue, and brings sharper awareness upon waking. It is one of God’s most underrated gifts.
Yet even with this understanding, I still struggle to manage my idle hours wisely. I’ve made progress—weaning myself off the compulsion to post constantly, to perform online. But temptations remain. I get pulled into TikToks and videos designed by and for the young, filled with scenarios that, deep down, I know exclude me. Rarely do I see people my age represented with dignity. When we appear, it’s for comic relief or sympathy—not inspiration.
So why do I let myself get addicted to a world that doesn’t even acknowledge me?
That is the tragic comedy of aging in the digital age: participating in a culture that has long since moved on. But I still have hope. Hope that I can reclaim what is mine—dignified time, appropriate pleasure, wise discipline. I just have to act the age I’ve spent so much time writing about.
Aging Isn’t a Walk in the Park
I used to imagine retirement as a soft landing. No more office politics, no rush-hour traffic, no toxic social dynamics—just a calm, leisurely existence. But I underestimated the losses that come with age.
There’s the emotional loss of loved ones, yes—but even more insidious is the gradual erosion of the body. Even if you eat well, exercise, and live wisely, aging still comes for you. It’s nature’s design. In my case, I was blindsided by type 2 diabetes, despite a relatively active lifestyle. I had even run marathons. But heredity had the final say. My mother had it. So did my siblings, cousins, aunts.
With diabetes comes a triad of risks: elevated blood sugar, blood pressure, and cholesterol—each increasing the chances of heart disease, stroke, and infections. It’s a ticking clock. Aging with grace becomes less about denying this reality and more about managing it daily with discipline and humility.
Let’s not pretend: the human body is a machine, and no machine escapes wear and tear. Entropy is built into creation. But it doesn’t mean we stall and rust. It just means we operate within our limitations and take care of our parts.
Work, Redefined
People often ask: What do you do now that you’re retired? I say, I still work—just differently.
For me, work no longer involves lifting patients or motivating stroke survivors. That used to be my world. As a physical therapist, I dealt with bodies that didn’t move, patients who didn’t want to move, and families who didn’t understand why it mattered so much. What people didn’t see was the emotional and physical toll that work took on the therapist too. Trying to lift and coach someone who’s heavy, scared, and resistant is no small feat.
And now, ironically, I live with the awareness that I may one day be that patient.
It’s not a fantasy. It’s a future possibility. I imagine a younger PT walking into my room and gently coaxing me to sit up, walk, or wash. And because I’ve been on the other side of that exchange, I know better than to resist. Movement is survival. It’s the first sign of life returning after illness.
But even after discharge, there’s still daily life to manage. Bathing, dressing, cooking—these tasks can become daunting. The last thing I want is to become a burden to someone else, especially to a caregiver who may already be struggling herself.
So the question remains: Am I ready for that day?
A Plan for Readiness
Readiness is a discipline. Every day, I try to do what keeps me from decline.
I don’t stay in bed all day, no matter how tempting. I avoid long stretches of couch time unless it's balanced with activity. I remind myself that the human body isn’t made for idleness. Joints need movement. Muscles need resistance. Balance needs reinforcement. The heart needs both rest and effort. The mind needs focus, challenge, and peace.
My personal checklist for this season of life now includes:
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Walking – to maintain mobility and cardiovascular strength
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Exercising – even light resistance builds resilience
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Balancing – to prevent the falls that rob us of independence
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Socializing – to keep loneliness from becoming disease
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Proper Diet and Nutrition – to fuel healing and mental clarity
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Relaxation and Rest – not as escape, but as medicine
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Play – because laughter and joy extend life
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Avoidance of Vices – because indulgence shortens it
I may no longer be Esther, standing before a king to save a nation, but I have my own throne room to approach each morning: the quiet presence of God, the invitation to live wisely, and the power to choose how I respond to life’s inevitabilities.
And maybe—just maybe—I have been placed here, for such a time as this.
Little Foxes in the Brain
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Song of Solomon 2:15
Catch for us the foxes,
the little foxes
that ruin the vineyards,
our vineyards that are in bloom.
I’m grateful that I no longer give in so easily to the primitive urges of my brain—especially when it comes to how I live each day. Since retiring, I’ve developed a lifestyle shaped more by reflection, reason, and self-discipline. This is largely thanks to the neocortex—the higher, more evolved part of the brain responsible for logic, foresight, empathy, and moral decision-making.
In my younger years, I was far more driven by what psychology calls the “id”—the primitive self. That part of us seeks immediate pleasure: food, sex, material things, high-risk excitement. Back then, I rarely questioned those impulses. Life felt like a constant tug-of-war between desire and guilt. I now understand that I was under the influence of the primitive brain—the older, reptilian and mammalian parts of the mind that govern survival instincts, aggression, lust, and addictive behavior.
But things have changed. Whether it’s due to age, illness, experience, or spiritual growth, I no longer feel those urges with the same intensity. Instead of constantly battling my impulses, I find that my neocortex—what others might call the moral compass or superego—now acts as a wise guide. It doesn’t just suppress my urges; it replaces them with better alternatives. I don’t have to fight as hard anymore. A calmer, more centered part of me gently reasons with the old impulses.
Yesterday was a good example. After a beautiful morning walk beneath a sky that shifted from soft light to heavy overcast, I felt a familiar restlessness. Years ago, I might have jumped into the car and gone searching for distractions—maybe even something or someone to satisfy a craving or fill a void. But now, those thoughts trigger a quiet internal debate:
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“Will this truly satisfy me?”
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“What are the long-term consequences?”
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“Do I even have the energy or desire to follow through?”
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“What if something goes wrong?”
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“Will I feel good about this tomorrow?”
These questions come from self-awareness, not fear. And they come up often—when I think about traveling, visiting Miami, going on spontaneous trips, or even flying back to my home country. It’s not anxiety that stops me—it’s thoughtful evaluation, a kind of internal check-in.
In the past, I used excuses to hold myself back—like responsibility to my sister, family obligations, or concerns for my safety. But truthfully, I often still gave in. I made impulsive choices. Some nearly led me to serious harm.
Now it’s different. I’m not repressing the old desires—I’m redirecting them. I walk instead of wandering aimlessly. I write rather than chasing empty connections. I have meaningful conversations in the park about health, aging, and pain—topics that matter now more than ever.
Yesterday, I spoke with a martial arts instructor who asked about tightness in his hip. As a retired physical therapist, I shared my thoughts on the difference between muscle and joint restriction, and how to safely increase range of motion. Earlier, I had spoken to a kind, slightly overweight man who often sits alone at the far end of the boardwalk. We talked about aging and illness. That’s the kind of connection I now seek.
This park has become a kind of classroom for me. Over the years, I’ve seen all kinds of people pass through—from local families to addicts, drifters, and rehab patients. When sober homes for profit flooded our town years ago, many out-of-state young people were brought here to recover. Some succeeded. Others didn’t. I watched many fall through the cracks—abandoned, relapsed, wandering the streets far from home.
It’s shaped how I see people. There’s a quiet young man who often sits alone at the far end of the boardwalk. He’s well-groomed and clean—not homeless. But something about him makes me wonder if he might be a dealer. Yesterday, the martial arts teacher left in a hurry right after talking to me—possibly headed toward him. I can’t say for sure. It’s just a hunch, and I could be wrong. But I’ve learned to trust my observations.
I remember a young man named C–––, a homeless kid who looked clean and normal—until he was arrested for selling fentanyl that caused someone’s death. Appearances can be misleading.
And then there’s J–––, a woman who’s had multiple strokes. She still walks the park with others who are homeless or addicted. She often tells stories of being robbed or assaulted. Once she paid for a hotel room to be with C–––, only to be robbed by him and left behind. She was angry, but unaware that she was acting out of compulsion. That’s what happens when the primitive brain dominates—it hijacks judgment and shuts down self-care.
J––– could live safely in a facility using her disability or Social Security checks. But she, like others, chooses to live on the streets—where she can spend her money on drugs or unstable relationships. I think of another woman, B–––, who died drunk on a street corner after losing her husband. Her son, later found high and drifting, was another life lost to impulse and emotional chaos.
This is what I fear most—not just for others, but for myself and for society. When we live solely from the primitive brain, we throw out reason, love, responsibility, and even our dignity. That’s the path I want to avoid.
So how do I resist it?
I speak with the Lord. Constantly.
I believe the neocortex is more than just a part of the brain—it is where the Holy Spirit dwells. While the primitive brain is wired for survival, the neocortex is wired for transformation. Through prayer, quiet reflection, meditation, and writing down my thoughts, I keep the conversation going with God.
I also find strength in spending time with people who share this same spirit. A good friend, a kind partner, or someone who lives from their higher self—these relationships help me stay rooted in what matters.
When I look around and see the chaos in the world—politicians addicted to power, influencers hungry for attention, people filming fights and violence for clicks—it’s clear that the primitive brain is on full display. Even some Facebook posts are so vulgar, impulsive, and unrestrained they feel more animalistic than human.
That’s why I write. That’s why I reflect. That’s why I give thanks—because I know the Holy Spirit lives in me and speaks quietly when the lower parts of me try to rise. Every day, I ask:
“Is this good?”
And more often than not, that simple question brings me back to peace, to purpose, and to the stillness where grace lives.
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