Standing still

People keep asking me how things are going since I retired. I usually say, “It’s okay.” The truth is, it’s completely overwhelming.
The disability paperwork alone feels like a full-time job—an especially cruel irony when you’re filling it out to prove you’re incapable of working full-time. Every question makes me wonder if I’m answering it correctly, explaining too much, not explaining enough, or somehow accidentally disqualifying myself with the wrong adjective. Add in the fact that I am a world-class procrastinator, and getting everything completed in a timely manner has become its own special challenge.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I lost track of the calendar and suddenly realized my colleagues returned to work this week.

Monday hit me harder than I expected. I don’t miss the commute. I definitely don’t miss sitting through meetings that could have been emails. But I miss my colleagues. I miss the familiar rhythm of the school year and being part of something I did for so many years. There’s something strange about knowing everyone else has returned to a world that used to be such a huge part of mine while I’m standing still, trying to figure out what comes next.

Ironically, my body decided Monday was also a good day to remind me exactly why I’m not there.

I woke up feeling less than great but realized I was out of my older dog’s food. I ordered it online and drove to pick it up. I had the puppy with me, so while I was there, I decided to ask the trainer about puppy classes. Nothing strenuous. Nothing complicated. Just a quick errand and a conversation.

I stood waiting while he finished with another customer, and suddenly I felt nauseous and lightheaded. The trainer was incredibly sweet, but once he started talking, he really started talking. Meanwhile, I was standing there trying to smile and participate in the conversation while my body was sending increasingly urgent messages that this little meet-and-greet needed to wrap up immediately.
Eventually, I had to ungracefully excuse myself and make my way back to the car. I sat there in the air conditioning for quite a while, waiting for the nausea and lightheadedness to pass.

And somewhere in that parking lot, I had an epiphany.

For months, I’ve struggled with whether retiring was the right decision. Part of my brain still seems convinced that if I just rested a little longer, tried a little harder, or found the right treatment, I could somehow push my way back into my old life.

But there I was, sitting in my car recovering from the strenuous activity of standing in a store and talking about puppy classes.

Maybe that’s the part I’ve had the hardest time accepting: I really, truly am not capable of working right now.

I spent most of my life pushing through pain, fatigue, illness, and whatever else my body threw at me. Pushing through became so normal that stopping feels like failure, even when stopping is exactly what I need to do.

So while everyone else went back to school on Monday, I got a different kind of lesson.

I may still be grieving the career I left behind. I may still hate filling out paperwork that forces me to document everything my body can no longer do. And I may still occasionally wonder whether I made the right decision.

But apparently, sometimes clarity arrives in a Petco parking lot.

And Monday, my body gave me a pretty definitive answer.