Three Years In Retirement: When Boredom Is a Doorway

No one warns you about the boredom.

I retired three years ago, and I thought I had it all planned. I had a list—gardening, woodworking, reading, maybe learning a language. I had visions of myself as a man of leisure, a gentleman of refined hobbies, someone who woke up when he wanted and filled his days with meaningful pursuits.

Here is what actually happened. I finished the gardening in a week. The woodworking was harder than I remembered, and I did not have the patience for it. The reading put me to sleep. And the language? I downloaded the app and never opened it again.

I was bored. And I was ashamed of being bored. I had spent forty years dreaming of free time, and now that I had it, I did not know what to do with it.

Boredom in retirement is not about having nothing to do. It is about not knowing what matters. When you are working, your priorities are set for you. Deadlines, meetings, projects, responsibilities, they fill your calendar and give your days shape. When that structure disappears, you have to build your own. And that is harder than it sounds.

For months, I wandered. I filled my days with small tasks. I ran errands. I watched television. I scrolled through my phone. I was busy, but I was not engaged. I was passing time, not using it.

The turning point came when I stopped asking "What should I do?" and started asking "What do I actually want to do?"

That is a different question. It requires you to know yourself. It requires you to admit what you enjoy, not what you think you should enjoy. It requires you to be honest about what gives you energy and what drains it.

When I started being honest with myself, I discovered something surprising. I did not want to be busy. I wanted to be useful. I did not want to fill time. I wanted to connect.

I stopped trying to fill my days with activities and started looking for ways to help. I volunteer at the Senior Centre, helping with the Tuesday Talks. I started calling isolated seniors, just to check in. I joined a group of retired men who met for coffee once a week. We did not solve the world's problems, but we listened to each other. And that mattered.

The boredom faded, not because I found more to do, but because I found more to care about. Boredom, it turns out, is often a signal. It is telling you that something is missing. Not something to do, but something to care about.

Boredom is not a failure. It is a doorway. It is an invitation to ask deeper questions. What do I actually enjoy? Who do I actually want to spend time with? What actually matters to me now that no one is telling me what matters?

Do not wait for the answer to come to you. Go looking for it. Try things. Say yes to invitations. Show up places even when you are not sure. The answer will find you when you are in motion.

Three years in, I am no longer bored. I am engaged. I am connected. I am useful. And that is worth more than any hobby I ever tried to force myself to enjoy.

Three Years In Retirement: The Silence After the Applause

 In the next few posts, I have some advice from people who have recently retired, and those who have been retired for a while. I hope you enjoy the different perspectives.

I retired three years ago. Let me tell you what no one told me.

The first year was a whirlwind. My wife and I travelled, months of it. We went to places we had only talked about for decades. Every day was a new city, a new meal, a new adventure. I felt like I had finally won the prize I had been working toward my whole life.

The second year, we slowed down. We had seen enough. We were tired. And then, slowly, the quiet settled in.

The third year, I hit a wall I did not see coming.

It was not sadness, exactly. It was something worse. It was the feeling of being unnecessary. For forty years, I had a role. People needed me. Decisions waited for me. My calendar was full of things that mattered to other people. And then, one day, it wasn't. The phone stopped ringing. The emails stopped coming. The world moved on without me, and I was left standing on the platform, waving at a train that had already left the station.

That was the hardest part. Not the loss of income. Not the loss of structure. The loss of being needed.

Here is what I figured out, eventually. The excitement of retirement fades because it was never meant to last. Excitement is not a destination. It is a spark. And sparks burn out. What lasts is something deeper. It is purpose. It is connection. It is the quiet knowledge that you still matter, even if the world is not calling your name every five minutes.

So, I started asking a different question. Not "What am I going to do today?" but "Who am I now?"

That question changed everything. It forced me to stop looking backward at the person I used to be and start looking forward at the person I was becoming.

I joined a book club. I volunteer at the food bank. I started writing again, something I had not done since I was in my twenties. I learned to play pickleball, badly, but with enthusiasm. I started having coffee with a group of men who had all retired around the same time. We called ourselves the "Lost Boys," but we were not lost. We were just finding our way.

The disenchantment faded, not because I found something to fill my time, but because I found people to share it with.

If you are thinking about retiring, or if you have just retired and the shine is already wearing off, here is what I would say.

The first year is a gift. Take it. Travel. Rest. Do nothing. You have earned it.

But do not expect that to be the whole story. The second year will be quieter. The third year will ask you harder questions. And that is not a sign that something has gone wrong. It is a sign that you are human.

Plan for the emotional side of retirement, not just the financial side. Ask yourself now: What will give me purpose when the excitement fades? Who will I spend time with when my work colleagues are no longer part of my daily life? What will I contribute when no one is paying me to contribute?

The answer is not a hobby. It is not a trip. It is not a project. The answer is people. It is meaning. It is the sense that you are still part of something larger than yourself.

You are not done. You are not obsolete. You are just beginning a new chapter. And like any new chapter, it takes time to find your footing.

Three years in, I am still finding mine. But I am finding it. And that has made all the difference.

The Next Bend in the Trail

 There is something wonderfully liberating about realizing that you don't know what comes next.

When we are young, we often believe we know where life is taking us.

School.

Career.

Marriage.

Family.

Mortgage.

Retirement.

The road seems to have signposts everywhere.

Then one day you reach retirement and discover something rather surprising.

The signs become fewer.

At first, that can be frightening.

Then, if you are lucky, it becomes exciting.

Because when there is no sign telling you exactly where to go, you get to look around.

You get to choose.

You may have spent forty years following schedules created by someone else.

Now you can begin creating your own rhythm.

And that rhythm doesn't have to look like anyone else's.

This is where I think we sometimes misunderstand retirement.

We treat it like the end of something.

But what if it is actually the beginning of an experiment?

What happens if I try this?

What happens if I learn that?

What happens if I say yes to an invitation I would once have turned down?

What happens if I take the trip?

What happens if I join the choir?

What happens if I volunteer?

What happens if I write?

What happens if I simply walk through the park and see where the path takes me?

There is something wonderfully freeing about those questions.

They don't require certainty.

They require curiosity.

And curiosity is one of the great gifts of growing older.

We know enough now to understand that things rarely go exactly according to plan.

We have already survived disappointments.

We've changed jobs.

Moved homes.

Raised families.

Lost people we loved.

Started over.

Made mistakes.

Recovered.

Adapted.

Laughed at ourselves.

Perhaps even more importantly, we have learned that we don't know nearly as much as we once thought we did.

That may not be a weakness.

It may be wisdom.

Remember the forest.

Every time I walk through one, I notice something I have never noticed before.

The forest hasn't necessarily changed.

I have.

I have slowed down.

I am looking differently.

Perhaps retirement offers us the same opportunity.

We can look at our lives differently.

The job we once thought defined us becomes one chapter.

The house we worked so hard to pay for becomes a place from which we launch new adventures.

The skills we developed at work become tools we can use somewhere else.

The friendships we made become deeper because we finally have time to enjoy them.

The dreams we postponed begin knocking again.

And some of those dreams may surprise us.

Maybe you don't want to climb Mount Everest.

Maybe your adventure is taking a bus trip with a group of people you barely know.

Maybe it is learning to paint.

Maybe it is reading all the books you never had time to read.

Maybe it is volunteering at the community centre.

Maybe it is travelling to see someone you love.

Maybe it is sitting on a bench in the sunshine with a coffee and realizing that you don't have to be anywhere else.

We have a tendency to think adventures have to be enormous.

They don't.

An adventure is simply an experience in which you don't know exactly what will happen next.

That can happen at 65.

It can happen at 75.

It can happen at 85.

You are never too old for the next bend in the trail.

And please don't forget the most important piece.

Smile.

Laugh.

Especially at yourself.

There is tremendous freedom in not taking yourself quite so seriously.

You will forget someone's name.

You will walk into a room and forget why you went there.

You will put your glasses down and spend ten minutes looking for them.

You may even discover that the glasses are on your head.

Laugh.

You've earned it.

Growing older does not require us to become solemn experts on life.

We are still allowed to be surprised.

Still allowed to make mistakes.

Still allowed to be silly.

Still allowed to dance badly.

Still allowed to fall in love with a song.

Still allowed to marvel at a sunset.

Still allowed to wonder what is around the next corner.

That brings us back to where this series began.

We spend so much time trying to define music, poetry, love, life and happiness.

Perhaps we eventually discover that none of them can be captured.

They have to be experienced.

Retirement is much the same.

You cannot completely plan it.

You cannot know everything it will bring.

You cannot put the best moments in a bottle and save them for later.

You can only step into the experience.

Look around.

Listen.

Notice.

Laugh.

Love.

And keep walking.

When you first start thinking about retirement, it is natural to feel vulnerable.

You may feel that you have so much to lose.

But may I remind you of something?

Never again, at any other point in this journey, will you have so much to gain.

There are new people to meet.

New places to see.

New things to learn.

Old dreams to revisit.

New dreams to discover.

And perhaps most wonderfully of all, there is a version of yourself you haven't met yet.

So don't stand at the edge of the forest worrying about everything you left behind.

Take a breath.

Step onto the trail.

Look up.

Smile.

The path is waiting.

And who knows?

There may be something wonderful just around the next bend.

The Next Bend: Remembering Those Who Walked Before Us

On Remembrance Day, we pause.

We pause to remember the women and men who served.

Some went to war and never came home.

Some came home carrying wounds that could be seen.

Others came home carrying wounds that could not.

Some served for a few years.

Others made the military a lifetime of service.

And some are serving today, still wearing the uniform, still prepared to go wherever duty calls.

My father was one of those who served.

He fought in the Second World War.

I was not with him when he went to war, of course. I know part of hisstory but he never talked aabout his times  even  though my brothers and I had questions that were asked over the years.

But sometimes I find myself wondering what it must have been like to be young, to leave home, and to step onto a path without knowing where it would lead.

That is something we can all understand.

Life is full of bends in the trail.

But for those who went to war, the next bend could have meant almost anything.

A battle.

A wound.

A friend lost.

A telegram sent home.

Or, if they were fortunate, a journey home.

My father eventually came home.

Others did not.

That is why Remembrance Day matters.

It is not simply about remembering a war.

It is about remembering people.

People who had parents.

Brothers and sisters.

Husbands and wives.

Children waiting at home.

People who had favourite songs and favourite foods.

People who had plans.

People who had ordinary dreams.

They may have imagined returning home, getting a job, falling in love, raising a family, travelling, growing old.

They had a next bend in their trail too.

Some never reached it.

Others did, but were changed forever by what they had experienced along the way.

When we talk about sacrifice, I sometimes think we make the word too abstract.

Sacrifice is not an idea.

It is personal.

It has a name.

A face.

A family.

A story.

It is the young person who left home.

The mother who waited.

The father who worried.

The child who grew up without a parent.

The friend who never came back.

The veteran who carried memories for the rest of a lifetime.

And it is the person who serves today.

One of my nephews is in the armed services.

When I think about him, Remembrance Day becomes even more personal.

The uniforms may have changed.

The technology certainly has.

The world is different from the one my father knew.

But one thing has not changed.

Someone is still willing to step forward and serve.

Someone is still leaving home.

Someone is still accepting uncertainty so that others can live their ordinary lives.

And that brings me back to the idea of the next bend in the trail.

We spend a lot of time in our lives worrying about what is around the next corner.

Especially as we grow older.

Retirement can feel like that.

We leave behind the familiar path and wonder what comes next.

Will we be happy?

Will we have purpose?

Will we have enough to do?

Will we find new friends?

Will we still matter?

Those are real questions.

But Remembrance Day gives us another way to think about the unknown.

The people we remember did not know what was around their next bend either.

They walked anyway.

They stepped forward without guarantees.

They hoped.

They trusted.

They endured.

And because they did, generations after them were given the opportunity to walk their own trails.

That doesn't mean we should romanticize war.

There is nothing romantic about death, injury, grief or the terrible cost paid by families.

Remembrance is not about celebrating suffering.

It is about recognizing sacrifice and refusing to forget the people who made it.

Perhaps that is why the forest remains such a powerful image for me.

When I walk among the trees, I see the old trees and the young ones growing beneath them.

The new growth exists because something came before it.

The forest is constantly becoming.

One generation gives way to another.

The old becomes part of the new.

And so it is with us.

We are walking trails that others helped clear.

We are enjoying freedoms and opportunities that previous generations helped protect.

We did not create the whole trail ourselves.

We inherited part of it.

And now it is our turn to decide what we do with the next part.

Perhaps that is the quiet responsibility of remembrance.

We remember the people who walked before us.

We acknowledge what they gave.

And then we continue the journey.

Not by forgetting them.

By carrying their memory with us.

So, this Remembrance Day, when you hear the music, when you see the poppies, when the silence comes, think of a person rather than simply a number.

Someone's father.

Someone's mother.

Someone's brother.

Someone's sister.

Someone's child.

Someone's friend.

Someone who once stood at a bend in the trail and stepped forward.

And then think about the trail you are walking.

Whatever your age, there is still another bend ahead.

There are people you haven't met.

Places you haven't seen.

Conversations you haven't had.

Laughter, you haven't shared.

Perhaps even adventures you haven't imagined.

We cannot know what is waiting around the corner.

Neither could those we remember.

But they walked forward.

So can we.

And perhaps the best way we can honour them is not simply to remember where they went.

It is to make good use of the road they helped make possible.

To live fully.

To love deeply.

To laugh often.

To care for one another.

And, when the trail turns again, to keep walking.

Lest we forget.