We are good at talking about change. We are far less comfortable talking about transition.
Change is what happens on
the outside. Retirement dates arrive. Jobs end. Routines shift. Calendars
suddenly open up. Change is visible and often measurable. Transition, on the
other hand, happens on the inside. It’s the emotional and psychological process
of adjusting to those changes—and it doesn’t follow a schedule.
This is where many people
get stuck, especially after 50.
In my first year of
retirement, I was still trying to figure out what to do with all the time that
had suddenly appeared in my life. For decades, my days had been structured by
work, deadlines, and responsibility. When that structure disappeared, I felt unmoored,
even though retirement was something I had looked forward to.
Around that time, I was
asked to join the board of a local charity. Without overthinking it, I said
yes. Part of me wanted to feel useful again. Another part wanted somewhere to
go, something to belong to, while I figured out who I was becoming.
As I learned more about what
the charity did and the impact it had on the people it served, something
unexpected happened. I began to feel a connection to my community that I had
never experienced before.
I had lived in that
community for fifteen years, but I worked elsewhere. Like many people, I was a
commuter. I left early, returned late, and spent most of my waking hours
outside the place I called home. My relationship to the community was
practical, not personal. I knew the roads, the shops, the routines, but not the
deeper rhythms of the people who lived there.
In retirement, that changed.
As I coped with the external
change of no longer working, I was also going through an internal transition.
Slowly, almost without noticing, I stopped feeling like a stranger in a strange
land. I began to feel rooted. I wasn’t just passing through anymore. I was
participating. I was transitioning from commuter to citizen.
That experience helped me
understand something important: change and transition are not the same thing,
and confusing them can lead to frustration and self-doubt.
Most transitions move
through three phases.
The first is endings. Even
when change is positive, endings involve loss. You lose routines, status, daily
interactions, and familiar ways of being seen. Endings ask us to let go, and
that often brings grief, irritation, or numbness. Many people try to rush past
this phase, telling themselves they should be grateful or relieved. But
unacknowledged endings have a way of lingering.
The second phase is the
messy middle. This is the part no one prepares us for. The old life no longer
fits, but the new one hasn’t fully formed. You may feel restless, uncertain, or
oddly invisible. Productivity drops. Confidence wavers. You might wonder if
you’ve made a mistake or if something is wrong with you.
Nothing is wrong. You are in
transition.
The messy middle is
uncomfortable, but it’s also fertile ground. It’s where new identities begin to
take shape, often quietly and imperfectly. It’s where you experiment, say yes
to things that aren’t permanent, and learn what resonates now, not ten years ago.
The final phase is new
beginnings. These don’t arrive with fanfare. They emerge gradually, as clarity
replaces confusion and energy returns in different forms. New beginnings feel
less like reinvention and more like recognition. You start to see where you fit
again, even if the fit looks different than before.
As you move toward or into
retirement, life will continue to bring change. You can accept it, resign
yourself to it, or embrace it. Embracing doesn’t mean loving every moment. It
means staying present, curious, and open while the transition unfolds.
If you’re feeling unsettled
right now, take heart. You may not be lost. You may simply be between who you
were and who you are becoming.
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