My father-in-law, Frank Noble, a lifelong resident of the small town of Porepunkah in Australia, made a life-altering decision at the age of fifty-five: he chose to retire. At that time, most people were still deeply immersed in their careers, yet Frank, confident and self-assured, decided that his years of labor had been enough. Now, more than three decades later, at the age of eighty-seven, he often reflects on that moment with calm satisfaction, insisting that if he were given the opportunity to relive his life, he would still have no hesitation about stepping away from work so early. Over these intervening years, he has built a deeply fulfilling routine centered around activities that continue to bring him peace and purpose—caring for his garden, playing leisurely yet competitive rounds of golf, and maintaining his health at the gym. He has often told me, with quiet conviction, that he has no regrets about exchanging the structured demands of employment for the self-directed freedom of retirement—an especially noteworthy stance in a country like Australia, where the average person expects to work until around sixty-five.
Yet, witnessing Frank’s version of what most people would consider a successful retirement has had a curious effect on me. It has clarified, rather than obscured, my own perspective: I do not wish to follow his path. As I approach my fifties, the concept of retiring early holds no allure. The idea of stopping work seems, to me, less like liberation and more like a forfeiture of purpose. My work feeds my intellect, brings me creative satisfaction, and seems to align perfectly with the sense of identity I have cultivated over the years.
While my husband jokingly accuses me of being overly enthusiastic about Mondays—groaning with mock despair as he heads off for another week of physically demanding labor—my relationship to work is profoundly different. As a remedial massage therapist, his days involve precise attention to bodily mechanics, constant physical exertion, and the inevitable fatigue that accompanies hands-on professions. For him, the start of the week marks the renewal of that physical strain. In contrast, my own professional routine as a copywriter and freelance journalist is an entirely different world—mentally engaging but not physically exhausting, meticulous but not monotonous. My assignments invite me to explore ideas, craft narratives, and express concepts that excite me. Work, for me, feels like self-expression in its purest form.
Often, when writing, I find myself slipping into what psychologists call a ‘state of flow,’ that rare and absorbing mental space where time dissolves. Six hours can vanish in what feels like moments, and I might only become aware of my body again when hunger interrupts my concentration. That rhythm of creativity, productivity, and satisfaction is deeply rewarding. It makes me feel extraordinarily fortunate, because when one’s vocation coincides with one’s passion, the traditional motivation to retire early tends to fade. For me, work is not merely a means of earning a living; it is a daily opportunity to learn, to produce something meaningful, and to see tangible results of my effort.
My father-in-law, to his credit, has found an equally authentic sense of fulfillment—though his comes from pursuits quite distinct from professional ones. Trained as a forester, Frank devoted his younger years to understanding the intricate ecosystems of trees and land management. When he laid aside his career, he discovered joy in nurturing another form of life: his extensive home garden. The transition seemed almost inevitable, given his lifetime fascination with the natural environment. Even now, approaching ninety, he continues to spend as much as six hours each day tending to his fruit trees and vegetable beds, hands deep in the soil. That daily ritual, he says, gives him a renewed sense of usefulness and identity. His garden, in many ways, became the continuation of his professional life by other means—a new ecosystem to manage, a legacy of growth and patience cultivated just outside his back door.
I’ve often admired his ability to transfer his skill and passion so seamlessly from work to leisure. Yet that admiration carries an undercurrent of apprehension, for I doubt I could replicate it. Writing, my chosen craft, does not easily lend itself to a purely recreational form that would satisfy my need for intellectual challenge and public engagement. Even if I were to write purely for pleasure, I suspect I would still crave an audience, a purpose, and the validation that comes from publication—essentially the same conditions that professional writing already provides. Without that external goal, the creative process might feel diminished, its urgency lost.
Another concern that lingers in my mind is the emotional transition that comes with retiring. Frank has often admitted that during the first year of his retirement, despite his confidence in the decision, he faced an unexpected wave of melancholy. The sudden absence of deadlines, responsibilities, and workplace camaraderie left a temporary void. The shift from managing teams and navigating the structured rhythm of professional life to spending quiet days at home was, at first, disorienting. Although that period of adjustment was short-lived, Frank’s experience reminds me that the emotional turbulence of retirement can be profound, even for those who are financially secure and purposeful afterward. Knowing how integral work is to my own sense of self, I can’t help but fear that I might undergo a similar phase—but perhaps even more acutely.
My current days, though busy, pulse with meaning. Mornings often begin with exchanges of ideas—pitching story concepts to editors, replying to a flood of emails, or mapping out the skeleton of a new piece. The midmorning hours dissolve into writing: travel features, parenting essays, or explorations of human relationships that demand both research and empathy. By afternoon, I often pivot to business-oriented writing, crafting blog posts or corporate communications. My schedule requires stamina, concentration, and flexibility, but each completed article or project delivers a tangible rush of pride. When evening arrives and I collect the children from school and daycare, I feel a blend of fatigue and deep gratification—a sense that the day, however demanding, has moved me one step forward.
Should I ever retire early, I know I would miss that rhythm: the blend of challenge, learning, and creation. Certainly, I could find hobbies that offer stimulation—perhaps learning an instrument or studying art history—but I doubt those would replace the profound satisfaction of professional contribution. More importantly, I would miss the subtle but steady pulse of purpose that my work gives me.
There is, of course, a practical dimension to my hesitation. I truly value the steadiness of a regular income. It’s not merely about comfort—it’s also about security, the reassurance that our family can meet expenses today while building safeguards for tomorrow. Frank was fortunate: when he left his career, he was debt-free, his mortgage fully paid, and sustained by a combination of sound investments and a pension. My husband and I, by contrast, still have financial obligations—two mortgages and three children who will require emotional and financial support for many years to come. Early retirement, therefore, feels not only emotionally premature but also economically imprudent.
Even beyond those practical issues, I find genuine pleasure in knowing that each paycheck contributes to long-term stability and the gradual accumulation of a financial buffer. It feels satisfying to be both providing for my family and preparing for future independence. The unpredictability of life—health concerns, economic downturns, unexpected expenses—makes the thought of ceasing work too soon feel risky. Before imagining any version of retirement, I’d like to see our debts fully resolved, perhaps even selling one property to secure the other. Only then could I consider stepping away from steady employment.
In the end, I recognize that early retirement can be the ideal choice for some—particularly those who accumulate sufficient wealth early or whose passions flourish more abundantly outside the structure of formal work. For people like my father-in-law, whose hobbies are extensions of lifelong interests, retirement can be a continuation of purpose rather than an end to it. But for me, at least for now, the vision of quitting work early does not feel like liberation; it feels like deprivation. I love writing, and I still find joy in exchanging ideas, shaping narratives, and contributing to the broader conversation of the world. I cannot imagine giving that up merely for the sake of having more unstructured time.
Perhaps my vision of retirement will mature and alter as the years pass. At present, though, in my forties, I see my future not as a full withdrawal from working life but as a gradual narrowing of focus—continuing to write on my own terms rather than stopping entirely. My ideal scenario involves my husband and me settled in a comfortable home that we fully own, financially stable enough to travel occasionally, and with the freedom to indulge our family, including, one day, our grandchildren. I imagine him happily spending hours on the golf course, while I remain at my desk, fingers lightly tapping the keyboard, still telling stories that challenge, comfort, and inspire. That, for me, would be the perfect balance between purpose and peace—a life in which the work I love continues to give meaning long after the traditional boundaries of career have faded.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/why-dont-want-to-retire-early-drawbacks-2025-10
