I used to be super-active. My career as a physical therapist demanded constant movement — standing, walking, lifting, assisting, and talking my brains out while instructing patients. As if that weren’t enough, I trained for long-distance running on an almost daily schedule. Living alone meant I had to handle everything myself: laundry, cooking, shopping, cleaning — and, for reasons that still amaze me, I even returned to night school in my fifties to earn a second degree in Computer and Information Technology.
There are many people like me — or perhaps there were. We were not born into privilege. Every good thing we achieved came from perseverance, discipline, and work. Money? Work every day. Health? Run every other day. Fun? Maybe later. Even relationships had to wait until the next free weekend.
But time has its own way of humbling even the most determined. Just when my body had become accustomed to decades of relentless motion, unwelcome changes crept in — gradual, yet undeniable. Though I expected them, I was still surprised. I tried to resist them — ignored the pains, fought the memory lapses, added more miles to my runs, spent longer hours at the gym, and took on new hobbies as if to outrun the inevitable.
No one wins against nature. Acceptance came slowly, but it came. I used to lift patients from bed to chair single-handedly; later, I needed assistance. I used to run fifteen miles at dawn and work eight hours afterward. I could stay up for three nights straight to meet a programming deadline.
Then I got old.
The decline was not just physical — it was mental and emotional. I spent years being “too nice,” worrying too much about how others saw me — patients, coworkers, supervisors. In health care, you smile through exhaustion, keep calm when insulted, and dodge the occasional swing from a confused patient. You motivate, you restrain, and you do it again tomorrow. Without careful boundaries, the profession can consume you. Burnout becomes inevitable — a short temper, emotional fatigue, coworkers breaking down in tears for no clear reason, the whole department passing around the same cold because everyone’s immune system is running on fumes. For years, I lived under high cortisol and low rest.
Eventually, the body surrendered: knee pain, shoulder pain, back pain. I watched my contemporaries retire one by one, replaced by young, energetic graduates filled with ambition, eager to specialize, to lead, to prove themselves. Suddenly, I was the one reminiscing about “the good old days.” My opinions, once sought after, began to lose weight. Not because others dismissed them, but because I quietly withdrew — preferring peace to confrontation, calm to chaos. There was relief in the sidelines: fewer politics, fewer headaches, fewer sleepless nights.
During rare pauses at work — those fleeting moments when I stared blankly at the wall after charting yet another patient’s progress — I began to dream of retirement. To be free from the constant pressure of pleasing patients, navigating hospital bureaucracy, and racing against time. I longed for mornings without alarms, for days unmeasured by productivity.
And then it happened — I reached the earliest age of eligibility and retired, without hesitation.
The Caveat: When Freedom Becomes Another Race
But here’s the caveat: like a child curious about new things, the initial months of retirement can be as exhausting as a full-time job. Remember the saying — curiosity killed the cat.
The first stage of retirement is often a frenzy of exploration. You want to try everything: gardening, traveling, photography, volunteering, joining clubs, learning instruments, or dabbling in business. I call these early pursuits “temporary passions and obsessions” — as explosive as the Big Bang, and sometimes as implosive as the Big Crunch.
This is a critical time for self-awareness and restraint. Many retirees, fueled by excitement and sudden freedom, invest too much — emotionally, financially, socially — in ventures that later lose meaning or fail altogether.
I’ve seen it happen: people starting businesses with no prior knowledge and losing their savings; others playing the stock market blindly; some buying properties they thought they could flip or rent out, only to end up in debt. Others spend lavishly on travel, dining out, or hobbies that drain their resources faster than expected.
I’m not saying retirees should suppress their dreams. On the contrary — this is the time to enjoy life. But it’s essential to scale your enthusiasm. Prepare before you leap. If you plan to start a business, ensure you’re well-informed and genuinely passionate about it. If you dream of being a woodworker or a cabinetmaker, start dabbling while you’re still strong and curious. Preparation, not impulsivity, is the key to fulfillment in retirement.
Preparation and Planning: The Seeds of Sustainable Joy
It’s all a matter of preparation. If travel excites you, start early. Take weekend trips, try hiking, or learn how to pack smart before venturing into bigger adventures. You don’t want to discover your fear of heights while zip-lining in your seventies.
If you dream of opening a small business — say, an ice cream shop — try working part-time in one while you’re younger. Learn how it operates before investing your retirement fund. The same logic applies to coffee shops, restaurants, or horticulture stores. Passion alone is not enough; practical experience is your compass.
Dreams are easy. Reality, however, can feel like walking barefoot on broken glass. Align your hobbies with your future capabilities. Build skill and experience early, while energy and learning capacity are still on your side.
Knowing Yourself and Scaling Your Joys
And most importantly — know yourself. Know your capacity, your limits, and your true sources of joy.
I’ve practiced gardening on and off through much of my adult life. I even took horticulture courses at a local college — one on Florida native plants, another on basic landscaping (which I discovered wasn’t my strength, but I learned nonetheless). For years, I served on the HOA board of my building, volunteering to maintain its landscape. Through trial and error, I learned the importance of irrigation, monitoring, and patience.
My “plant-on-sale landscaping” philosophy was born from thrift and creativity: I buy whatever’s discounted and try to revive it. My garden is an eclectic mix — a patchwork of species, colors, and textures. Imperfect, but alive.
Still, gardening is not cheap. Plants, soil, pots, garden beds, fertilizers, nets, and water systems add up. I learned to scale down — to keep only what I can manage, physically and financially. Instead of hundreds of plants, I grow a few vegetables, ornamentals, and select trees. I enjoy visiting Home Depot or Lowe’s, not to spend lavishly, but to rescue discounted, near-dead plants and give them a second life.
That’s the essence of it — I love giving life to something new. Watching a seed sprout or a cutting root brings fulfillment no grocery-bought fruit can match. My two-inch jacaranda sapling from Etsy now towers above my roof; the Queen Emma lilies, bird-of-paradise, pine trees, agaves, and dragon plants thrive under my care.
They give me purpose — a reason to wake up, step outside, breathe fresh air, and stay connected to the living rhythm of nature.
The True Reward of Retirement
In the end, retirement is not simply about stopping work. It’s about redefining life on your own terms.
The key lies in balance — between curiosity and contentment, between activity and rest, between doing and simply being. Retirees who thrive are those who plan, pace themselves, and invest in what genuinely sustains them: health, creativity, relationships, spirituality, and peace.
It’s a gradual shift — from striving to savoring, from achievement to appreciation, from proving yourself to simply being yourself.
And that, perhaps, is the real reward of growing older.