Now, with more than 30 years of experience and retirement softly visible on the horizon, I find myself not driven by what I can do next—but by what I want to feel next.
I’ve long promised myself that at 55, I’ll gently set this phase of life down. Though I could stretch my career to 60, I know my heart is seeking something else: time. Time with my family—the warmth I’ve missed while racing between deadlines. Time to rediscover myself—not as a title or role, but as a person who once dreamed of strumming melodies on a guitar, who finds beauty in books, and who sees art in a bird taking flight.
Maybe I’ll take my camera into the wild and learn to witness stillness. Maybe I’ll ride on Cycling Sundays not just for health, but for freedom—the kind you feel when the breeze tells you you're exactly where you're meant to be.
One dream has stayed tender in my heart: a quiet retreat in the countryside. A simple home nestled in greenery, where I can tend to cultivation not for profit, but for peace. Where the soil grounds me and silence speaks volumes. A place where I can reflect, celebrate my journey, and honor the pride I feel watching my only son forge his own path.
What should my end goal be?
It isn’t a title or accolade. It’s not even a finish line. It’s a return—to joy, to presence, to the things that matter when you’re no longer counting hours but moments.
