Retirement: The Courage to Leave the Habitual for the New

As a community college instructor for over 27 years (many years in the same school), I had my parking place—the one I always hoped to get if I got there early enough (by 9 a.m. at the latest). I would drive down the small serpentine road behind Batmale Hall (a prison-like building—home to the English Department) and park. Sometimes, I would see the same faculty member park at the same time. I often saw one women who walked her two leaping dogs; another walked a dog that had lost its back legs, but with a special contraption the dog was able to move up and down the small sidewalk and smell the flowers, lift its leg and pee.
My office was on the 3rd floor (away from the fray) but I would often go up to the 5th floor where there was coffee for a dollar and I would have a few moments with whoever happened to be there—“My child wore pajamas to school today,” a young mother/teacher said—“I spent the whole weekend grading and I have three batches left!” another said. I’d chat with the department secretary— about her daughter who was sick, or her other daughter’s day at kindergarten or the Xerox machine (always breaking down)—or check out the pastries or sometimes fresh fruit brought in by a faculty member. I needed those moments: they brought me into a community, however chaotic and fleeting it often felt as we all made our way across campus to different buildings. Sometimes the only non-student chats of the day were those few words exchanged between teaching 1A Transfer composition—or a night creative writing class where I often got coffee from “The Cart” and again chatted with those surrounding this small watering hole. Food has always drawn me to places!

It is the “watering hole” that I still miss—the talks about life/love/even death with those you have known—even if not deeply—for oh so many years. It takes courage to make the transition—leap into what can feel like the unknown. You have to give up that parking space—with all its easy familiarity.
Al Averbach worked as an editor for many years—and always wanted to write. He is now a published poet. He wrote to me about what it was like for him leading up to actually retiring—and talks about a slow phasing-out before he left his job completely.


In my work life—maybe for many born in the mid-forties and astounded by the sixties--I was almost famously stable. In early 2007, approaching 63, I had spent 30 years as a manuscript editor in just three work settings. It was work that suited me and made me feel useful. Never a planner or dreamer, or, for that matter, someone who took stock, I looked forward to vacations, but could always resume that habitual daily motion back to my desk and my manuscripts. That life just worked.

But now something had set in that I was slow to recognize. Sure, several co-workers had already left for another organization; sure, one whole small group had spun off to another setting. So some blanks had opened up around me, but (fixed as I was on the studies in hand and under way), I was slow to read them as signs. Now I wondered. Do I have to continue doing this same thing? What would happen if I don’t?

I still don’t know exactly what set off the flip in my perspective. There was some inner resistance, a real hesitancy, after all.
First, given our work-consumed culture, whose habits we’re prepared for from kindergarten on, there’s a freight of habit and inculcation, from punctuality on up, that would have to be set down and turned away from. I began to understand that I would have some other work to do . . . some great undoing was called for . . . and I had had no practice at learning it.
Second, to contemplate retiring wasn’t just to bring to an end my life as I knew it, day in, day out. It was, at nearly 63, to consider a decision that would tail me off in a single direction of a different order—toward the rest, and toward the end, of my life.

With these stakes, why such weak, paltry terms: retire, retirement? I didn’t like them, and there were no better near-synonyms. I actually found myself so short-handed for terms that I was angry. So I made one up—rezoom. I needed grounds for resumption of something left off long ago, and looked for them. For the previous 6 or 7 years I had begun composing poems, a practice I had given up for about 40 years, and had gotten several published. I began to feel I had finished an important phase in my life: My son was going to cycle in Europe while running his transcription business; my daughter was about to embark on her counseling/therapist career. My wife was still making a good salary at her work and liked working. And the recession hadn’t come upon us yet . . .

Even so, I “hedged” by choosing to transition slowly: “phased retirement.” A way for me to stick my head out the door from work, and keep a foot in, and see what it was like. I would work maybe 40% time. But then true writing appeared on the wall: our work group was going to be transferred from Berkeley to Sacramento, and subsumed into something else there. The only phase for me then, come late June 2007 was: out. And I took it, and have been in that phase since. Call it what one will, but one of its near-synonyms is “breathe.”

We all hope to “rezoom” as Al says and we often need to see that others before us have done this: left a long-time job and given up their parking place to someone else. I still miss seeing the dogs—but I see new dogs I had never seen before in my Glen Park neighborhood. I still miss all the chats but have new watering holes. Plus, I’m still teaching part-time so I have my students.

The Void

Perhaps one of the greatest fears of retiring is THE VOID. What do we go to next? Some definitions of the void contain the words useless, ineffectual, devoid, destitute--perhaps we imagine ourselves with no money pushing a shopping cart--though "There but for fortune" sometimes plays in my brain. We do the best we can at planning. We are grateful for our health.

But in reality, there are no voids. Ask my husband who recently said he has so many house projects to do(from dry rot to the garden which has become his kingdom) that these tasks—could go on ad infinitum—or maybe ad nauseum(which ever suits the moment). People do fill up their time—whether it’s house projects, family, friends, community work, or plunging into something—like drawing or writing—that was started eons ago and can now surface and blossom.


For teachers/writers like me—who always wanted to write more and teach less—retiring was more about losing the company of colleagues and the company of my precious students—and less about what I would do. I joined the San Francisco Writer’s Grotto, walked five blocks from my house to the BART(the subway), carrying my backpack filled with computer, computer chord and a few hearty snacks, and now I’m there two days a week—writing. I did miss my colleagues though, especially at first. Sometimes I would look at new faces—the eyes, the smiles, the lines-- and search for the old. Sometimes I would imagine all the “hellos” echoing through the City College of San Francisco campus where I worked for 27 years. But the void was filled up with writing and now, also, part-time teaching—more of the teaching I want to do—memoir workshops—a women’s lit. class with NO PAPERS to grade(which spares my aching neck). There are still students in my life. And I also get together with colleagues that I still do miss. But I must say, that when you leave—and many of us who retire leave after feeling very, very tired and after so many years—those little chats along the serpentine road that surround City College—or the small moments you have with co-workers—will now be filed into memories. If you planned somewhat, you won’t be destitute—pushing a shopping cart. But perhaps it’s an empty shopping cart that you see before you. What do you fill it with?

My advice would be to take some time if you don’t know what to do. Something will appear—a stray cat in your doorway who needs to be cared for—a young person who needs a tutor after school—a call from a dear old friend who wants to visit and now you have some time to show her around—and maybe a practice—yoga, walks, and reading. And for me—besides my writing and teaching--well my husband has been leaving the middle deck up to me to care for: he even got me some herbs and even planted them for me.(Hint, hint). I would take care of them—we would have fresh herbs for our meals.(See the use of “would”) “I have the back garden to care for,” he said. “This is yours.”
Today, finally, a New York City transplant who would rather be reading than watering— now I think I will finally water those herbs—fill my void with something new.

Getting to the Finish Line

Over the past few months, five people I have known have died---two were in their eighties but two were in their sixties(my decade of life right now). One friend now has metastatic cancer. She has been posting pictures of herself on Facebook--from a beautiful wide-eyed child in Ireland, to her now still beautiful thinning visage with a huge head of curly white hair and an endearing smile. The last picture was on Mother's Day with her daughter, both with their cheeks touching, her daughter's eyes, sad and a bit terrified. After all, it is a mother who first tethers you to this earth.
We don't know what the "finish line" of our lives will be--or how the energy of our lives, our atoms will live after we die. But we can, at least some of us can, make choices--when to leave our jobs--where to live--how to live, perhaps, more cheaply some place else. I know that when my body felt depleted- in those five months before retiring---I didn't want to get sick early. But at the same time, I was afraid I would get sick--before I had this chance of a new life.

I wanted time to enjoy the last decades(or however long it will be) of my life without the constant pressure of grading papers. I would feel small lumps--and bumps--those growths that seem to sprout more when you get older. My almost 15 year old dog, for instance, has big lumps on her ears. "Just part of the aging process" the Vet says, feeling that it's still movable and not growing. But I would, at times wonder if I would make it. I didn't want to die on the job.

My husband, six years older,left his job a couple of years before I left mine. We were both going to work longer--me until 63 at least and he until 70 but we both had to get out when we did. Jim would come home and say he had to talk himself through the day. "Now I'm filling out the forms. Now I'm putting on the coffee." The brain was drained, the body felt like it was following. He checked off days on the calendar, making big X's like a homesick boy at summer camp. He says this:

"Once I had set a definite date for my retirement, I became plagued with the fear that death or disability might strike me down before I could reach the goal I had labored for. Though I was in excellent health, thoughts of heart attack, stroke, or a fatal accident haunted my "final days" of work. It didn't help to acknowledge those fears as irrational. What mattered most was that after 54 years of paying into Social Security, I was going to be stopped short of the finish line. Whoa to the wage slave, who doesn't receive his or her pittance."

But he did get to retire. He goes on hikes, visits museums, does his art work--lately Egyptian hieroglyphs, follows his beloved team, The San Francisco Giants, reads and does a lot more house repairs than he had expected to do. He cooks for the student who lives with us. And I got to retire, as well, though I teach and write both part time. We're going to Pt. Reyes this Thursday, a typical work day-- a beautiful hiking area filled with water, birds, and spectacular views.

Sometimes, when those fears surface--it's good to take a deep breath and visualize--the healthy body--all the cells humming in perfect harmony. And perhaps, remember, that even though people die-- babies are also being born.

Retirement Anxiety--Not at All!

A friend of my sister's, Susan, taught art in high school for many years in St. Thomas, the US Virgin Islands, where my sister, a life-coach and therapist, has made her home for many years. She was a dedicated teacher---helping her students constantly--both inside and outside the classroom. But when she turned 65 and made the decision to leave her job, except for some minor anxieties about health care--she was ready to go.

Here is what she wrote:

Retirement Anxiety?

I remember marking the date of my intended retirement on a 12-month calendar hanging in the classroom where I taught. I would be 65 and that seemed a reasonable age at which to leave the teenagers with my hand picked replacement, a lovely young woman who was recommended by my university advisor in Tennessee. My retirement became a necessity when my husband suffered a subdural hematoma and needed my assistance during his recuperation, so I never really had any doubts that I had made the right choice. We had spent the previous five years caring for my mother who passed away at the age of 102, allowing us to take vacations together again.

Perhaps I had a bit of anxiety figuring out the health insurance options, but with Medicare kicking in and my government insurance as supplemental coverage; it all fell into place.

Do I miss being in the classroom? No. Do I miss the kids? Yes, but I see them on facebook. Do I miss writing lesson plans, attending staff meetings, dealing with disciplinary problems? Are you kidding? Am I bored? No. Do I lack direction? No. Am I enjoying being retired from teaching? A resounding YES!

Dreams and Fears before Retiring

Before I retired, I had strange dreams--old men in elevators beckoning me. Should I get on? Would I ever get off? Also, since I had to drop my younger daughter off my health care plan as it was too expensive--and my older daughter's health insurance was non-existent at that point--I had dreams about wading through knee deep water trying to get to a Kaiser Facility and find my daughters. Couldn't I stay one or two more years. Actually, I couldn't--or it would have taken a Herculean effort at that point. I had taught for over 27 years at community colleges. My neck was constantly hurting from grading papers. I would get home and do traction off my bathroom door. I heated up neck warmers in the microwave and had them on constantly. At work, I took the elevator everywhere--even one floor up which I had never done before. Sometimes we know when the body/mind has had it. We hope that we can see and feel those limits, before disease sets in--before cells break down.I didn't want to get sick. I knew that I would continue to work part-time somehow--but I had to leave my job and somehow re-imagine my life. I was lucky to have a pension but money would be tight.

I have an over-active imagination and perhaps my anxiety was a bit over-the-top, but I've heard from many others who had moments of panic, "good grief" as they played over their money situation--grown children situation (will I have some money to help them in this bad economy), health care situation--and for some--the question of "Who Am I now?"

I also dreamed of doing what I loved. Writing. Writing. I remembered all the journals I used to carry around in my twenties, recording my thoughts and feelings. I wanted the luxury of more time. I would work on my novel again. I would take hikes in the great outdoors with my husband. We would visit museums. And for some money I would teach classes part time. These dreams kept me going when my body/soul felt depleted
But those five months leading up to the big decision to leave a stable job--was fraught with obstacles--outer and inner. When I finally signed the papers--I felt both terrified and released.

Some of us have harder times with transitions--but for all of us, leaving a job can be difficult. As I took my body (which was starting to feel disconnected to my soul) to the social security office--as I played with my calculator incessantly trying to figure out--Can I do this?--so many thoughts and feelings went through my mind How could I calm myself (yoga--meditation--hikes and dreams of a different life). I know everyone can't retire--especially in this economy. And many of us who do retire, go back to work at least part-time.

I'm gathering small anecdotes of those who are on the verge of retiring--or have recently retired--a kind of journal to help those on this journey.