The Retirements That Matter Most Have Nothing to Do With Age

The value of letting go and lightening up.

Photo by Debabrata Hazra on Unsplash

Dust is stirring. Annie’s worried about her asthma kicking in.

Boxes everywhere, and oh boy, the books. That old stale smell of stuff left too long ignored.

And this award. It’s heavy, not only with weight. Memories, pride, the ceremony and speeches. The smile inside that she’d been seen.

But now it’s just part of the clutter and burden of decision-making.

The charm’s left. She doesn’t need to revisit this glory.

So she acts quickly. It’s now settled in the giveaway box.

One less thing to hold on to.

But what she’s doing in that dusty attic? That’s not just decluttering. That’s something deeper.

A bigger story about retirement

Clearing out the basement or attic may be something you’re leaving for retirement.

Because you expect to then have endless days for the business of letting go.

And you think that retirement is when you release things, clear out the clutter, and take time to sort and let go of stuff.

But what if retiring is not only about age or work?

What if it’s more about turning inward so we can move forward in our lives?

What if it’s key to a creative, contented life at any age?

An ancient word

I learned a lovely Sanskrit term, nivarthadvam, from my meditation teacher, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. It means turning back, retiring into the spacious Self within.

In this Vedic tradition, rather than a once-in-a-lifetime event at age 65, retiring is seen as a daily meditation practice of coming home to yourself.

You fall into a deep rest. You let the world go. Your body, heart, and mind come back revitalised.

As a creator, I find this practice of retirement non-negotiable.

Every morning before I write, I sit for 20 minutes. Eyes closed, breath settling, mind sinking. If I write first, my words feel forced. When I meditate first, the writing flows.

Creativity’s ebb and flow

It’s the tide going out and coming back.

The outward creator. Producing, engaging, expressing.

The inward one. Integrating, listening, replenishing.

Without nivarthadvam, I’m all output, no input. All giving, no receiving. And I have nothing real to say.

The inward dive is where inspiration lives, where clarity emerges, where my real voice is present. Where I feel what’s emerging from me.

And also where I see what I’m ready to leave. What’s run its course. What no longer has a role in my life.

I discover what I’ve outgrown or what was not mine to begin with.

What I’m ready to retire from.

When you shed old skins, your writing gets freer. More honest.

So let’s engage in a bit of retirement reflection with some prompts.

I designed them to help you reflect on where you’re already practising retirement, or where you might need to.

Retiring from the Old Self

Reflection prompt: Who have you been performing as?

I spent years as the person who said yes to every request. The helpful one. The accommodating one. Until one day, I was performing “nice” so well, I’d forgotten what I actually wanted.

The version of me that could say “No, thanks” without explanation? She was waiting in the wings. But I had to retire the people-pleaser first.

You could be performing a version of yourself you thought you needed to be. Which worked back then. But not now.

The costume you wore

Like a costume you put on and now peel off.

It was labelled “always available,” or “never complains,” or “doesn’t disrupt.”

But now you’re not sure you have the energy for that version of you.

And you hear a voice growing inside that wasn’t possible until you retired from that role. Because you wouldn’t have recognised yourself in her.

And no one else would have welcomed her in. Which mattered a lot to you in the past.

Retiring from Outgrown Ways of Living

Reflection prompt: What rhythms no longer fit your body?

Who doesn’t know the story of someone forced to retire early due to illness? The body kept the score and finally had its say. That time was up with the busy schedule, and change had to come.

I’ve been through a few of those cycles. You’d think I’d learn!

Are you at a pivot point where the hustle culture you once thrived in is now taking a toll? Noticing the dread that comes with seeing your packed calendar.

You sit back sometimes and ask, “When did productivity become an obsession? And who does it serve?”

You notice the difference in your body between your natural rhythm with the kids at the market on Saturday and the forced pace you adopt come Monday morning.

What energy patterns say

What is your energy pattern trying to tell you?

It’s like putting on those old sneakers that no longer fit. Your life feels as pinched as your toes.

It takes real courage to admit, “This isn’t working for me anymore.” To face what that means and the changes that follow.

Retiring from Old Thoughts and Feelings

Reflection prompt: What beliefs are you still carrying that don’t belong to you?

I held a belief for years that I had to earn the right to be heard. That my voice only mattered if I had credentials, accolades, proof.

But who told me that? Where did it come from? And why am I still believing it?

We have these blindspots that trip us up. False stories we’ve told ourselves. About what we need to do to be accepted, supported, and valued.

Beliefs about what success looks like. How failure feels. How exactly the sky will fall in on our heads when we post that story, quit that lame job, and try out tango classes.

An armour of fear

We’ve built an armour of fear long ago. But the drawbridge is down, the moat’s dried up, the castle’s empty. There is no enemy, but we feel imprisoned!

We ask where these feelings came from and why they are sticking with us.

We wonder what it would feel like to instead use that anger to create something. And to let joy run through us again.

To retire from needing to feel a certain harried, irritable way.

To let down this heavy baggage of emotion and stale ways of thinking about ourselves and the world, and choose a lighter way of being.

Retiring from Others’ Goals

Reflection prompt: Whose finish line have you been running toward?

You can get to 99% and feel glad you did well, but that’s about it. No exultation. No heart-searing delight.

This was me at age 15 with my math score. I could make the grade and get a stellar report, leaving the teacher and my parents proud. But not me, as reaching it was never an obsessive goal.

Luckily, I retired from following that particular goal early, choosing a degree in arts, not science, and never regretting the harder (for me) path.

And today, if my small Substack post or unfinished watercolour painting pleases me, I do feel I’ve made it. On my own path with my own reward on my own terms.

Whose expectations

The expectations? From parents, teachers, and the whole professional art world? Yeah, I stopped running that race. Sorry, not sorry.

How about checking in every now and again with whether the accolades and milestones that you’re pursuing mean more to you or someone else. Stop mid-race, catch your breath, look around, and check you’re still on the right track to a finish line that means something to you.

Because there’s a strange relief in admitting: “I never actually wanted this.”

Bonus prompt: What goals would you choose if no one were watching and approval didn’t matter?

Retiring Into Clarity

The gift of these retirements:

Each letting go creates space—this is nivarthadvam in action.

Who you actually are now finds a space to flourish.

Not who you were, not who you’ll become—who you are in this moment, sitting quietly, hearing the flow of your own breath.

This is where your real contribution lives. Not in the costume, the pace, the borrowed beliefs, the external goals.

But in the wisdom you’ve accumulated, the voice that emerges when performance ends.

One final reflection: What are you ready to retire from? What’s waiting in that space?

I’m still learning this practice. Still catching myself running towards finishing lines that aren’t mine. still noticing when I’m performing instead of just being.

But each time I retire something — a belief, a pace, a costume —I feel lighter. More like myself. More spacious.

Maybe that’s what retirement really is. A return to what was always there. A coming home.

Annie’s walking out of that dusty room now, the box is brimming, ready for new owners to claim.

Her heart is the most spacious she’s felt in years.