**Diary Entry – “I Dreamed of Retirement, Then Realised Life Without Purpose is Empty”**
The final months before retirement felt like dragging a sack of stones uphill. Every morning was a battle—dragging myself out of bed in the cold, my back aching with sciatica I hadn’t felt since my thirties. Some days, I took a cab to the office just to finish the reports, not wanting to let the team down.
On my last day, my colleagues threw a little farewell—champagne, speeches, laughter. For the first time in years, I felt valued. There was a bittersweet sadness, but mostly, relief. I imagined my new life: leisurely mornings with coffee, trips to the Tate, finally updating my wardrobe. I’d earned this freedom.
At first, it was bliss. I binged telly, ordered takeaway, and basked in the quiet. But after a week, my daughter showed up with little Oliver, exhausted, pleading, *”Mum, just watch him for a few hours—he’s been nonstop since dawn.”* We built pillow forts, baked biscuits, and read stories. For the first time since retiring, I felt alive. But when she took him home, the silence crashed back. The telly grated, books felt hollow. Why bother dressing up? Who for?
I still woke at seven out of habit, sipping coffee by the window, watching London rush below: mums hustling kids to school, commuters darting for the Tube. Meanwhile, I had nothing but time and no purpose.
Then my neighbour asked if I’d babysit her boy. I panicked—*what if I messed up?*—and declined. Back home, I cried. Me, a chartered accountant with 25 years’ experience, suddenly terrified of responsibility.
A year passed. My blood pressure spiked; I gained weight. The ladies next door invited me for tea, but their talk of funerals and ailments only deepened my gloom. I missed *mattering*. So I scoured job listings—most paid peanuts or demanded absurd skills. Then I spotted it: *”Part-time accountant. Flexible hours. Remote options.”* The office was a ten-minute walk. I applied, noting my discipline and reliability.
They replied the next day—no interview, just *”Come in.”* Suspicious, I went anyway, half-expecting a scam. Instead, I found a small firm with polite colleagues and manageable tasks—submit the paperwork on time, work at my pace. Some days I’d finish by lunch; others, I’d take my time.
Four years on, I’m still there. Stable salary, steady rhythm—like I’ve found my place again. Sometimes I regret not leaving my old job sooner, burnt-out as I was. But here? It’s a second wind.
I know I’m lucky. Getting hired at 56 isn’t easy. But retirement isn’t an ending—it’s a new chapter. And if you’ve still got something to give? Don’t let fear stop you. Time hasn’t run out yet—not while you’re still breathing.