Retired?

About two years ago, I retired.

After 42 years in one industry, suddenly nobody was expecting me at the office Monday morning.

And that’s a strange thing.

For your entire adult life, somebody asks you:

“What do you do?”

And you’ve got an answer.

Then you retire and suddenly the answer is:

“Well… apparently whatever the hell I want.”

So I started reading.

A lot.

I started exercising more. Thinking more. Meditating. Trying things. Questioning things.

And I started conducting a little experiment on myself:

Who am I if I stop doing things simply because I’ve always done them that way?

That’s been one of the most interesting experiences of my life.

Now, part of that journey has included marijuana and experimenting with very small amounts of psilocybin.

I mention that carefully because I don’t want it to become the story.

I’m not recommending it.

I’m not selling it.

I’m certainly not suggesting it’s right for everybody.

I’m simply telling you the truth about my experience.

Because apparently if you’re going to start something called the Truth Party, eventually somebody’s going to check your work.

And in my experience, those things have affected the way I think.

I feel more creative.

More curious.

More willing to wander down intellectual roads I might have ignored before.

But here’s the interesting part:

That honesty has also caused problems.

Particularly with people close to me.

And I understand some of that.

People worry.

People have their own experiences.

Their own beliefs.

Their own ideas about what somebody my age should and shouldn’t be doing.

But I’ve also learned something difficult:

When you change, the people around you don’t necessarily change with you.

Sometimes they don’t even like the fact that you’re changing.

Because they know the old version of you.

The old version is predictable.

The old version fits nicely into the little box they’ve built for you.

Father.

Brother.

Businessman.

Retired guy.

Whatever.

Then suddenly the retired guy starts meditating, experimenting, writing songs, doing stand-up comedy, talking to strangers and starting a political movement.

And everybody’s thinking:

“What the fuck happened to John?”

Fair question.

I’m wondering myself.

But I think I finally know the answer.

I got curious.

That’s really what happened.

I stopped drinking in 2018.

I try to eat well.

I exercise.

I take care of myself.

I read.

I think.

And probably most importantly, I’ve started deliberately putting myself into situations where I don’t know what’s going to happen.

That’s new for me.

Because for most of our lives, we’re taught to eliminate uncertainty.

Get a career.

Buy a house.

Build a retirement account.

Establish routines.

Know where you’re going.

Know who’s going to be there.

Know what happens next.

Then I retired and started doing almost the exact opposite.

I started walking up to strangers.

I started performing comedy.

I started making videos.

I started writing songs.

I started a political movement.

And here’s the really strange part:

I’ve never felt more alive.

Some of the relationships in my life have suffered.

That’s painful.

And I’m not going to pretend otherwise.

There are people I love who don’t understand some of the choices I’ve made.

Maybe someday they will.

Maybe they won’t.

And I’m learning that I can’t control that.

What I can control is whether I’m being truthful with myself.

Because I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left pretending to be somebody I’m no longer interested in being just because it makes everybody else more comfortable.

And that’s really what this whole experiment has become.

Not marijuana.

Not psilocybin.

Not politics.

Not the Truth Party.

Not even retirement.

Curiosity.

What happens when a human being refuses to stop learning?

What happens when you walk up to somebody completely different from you and ask them what they think?

What happens when you’re willing to discover that something you’ve believed for 50 years might be wrong?

What happens when you’re willing to say:

“I don’t know.”

Because those might be the three most liberating words in the English language.

I don’t know.

I don’t know exactly where the Truth Party goes.

I don’t know what I’m going to learn from the next stranger.

I don’t know what my next idea is going to be.

I don’t know exactly who I’m becoming.

And for the first time in my life…

I’m completely comfortable with that.

At 69, I’m not trying to have all the answers anymore.

I’m trying to ask better questions.

And maybe that’s what reinvention really is.

You don’t throw away the person you were.

You keep the good stuff.

The experience.

The scars.

The mistakes.