For most of my adult life, Monday morning meant something.

There was somewhere I was supposed to be. Things that needed my attention. People expecting answers. Problems to solve.

After 35 years of working for the same organization, there was a rhythm to it—even when the individual days were anything but predictable.

And then I retired.

But not for the reason I once imagined I would.

My mom had pancreatic cancer.

She and Dad lived about five hours away, and I knew that continuing to work meant losing time with her that I could never get back. So I retired early.

I have never regretted it for a second.

Mom had already been through so much by then. She had battled a rare form of vasculitis, and the treatment brought complications of its own. By the time the pancreatic cancer came, what mattered to me wasn’t how much longer I could work or what retiring early would cost.

It was time.

I didn’t get nearly enough of it with her.

But I treasure every second I did get.

Mom passed away the following March, just a few months after I retired in December.

And then Dad was lost.

Not literally at first.

He and Mom had been married more than 50 years and were best friends. Dad had worked right up until Mom became ill, and the two of them had built their life around one another. Without her, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

I began traveling back to see him about every two weeks.

Then one evening, he took off in his car and didn’t come home.

He was missing for three days.

A ranger eventually found him on the back side of Lake Isabella, sleeping on the ground and severely dehydrated. Doctors told us he probably wouldn’t have survived another day.

The combination of what had happened—including not taking his medications correctly and the resulting lack of oxygen—left him with dementia.

I had gone to Dad’s house the first day he disappeared.

I never moved back home.

Jim soon joined me, making a brutal weekly commute for work. Brittney and her then-husband later came to help. Eventually I sold our house in Hemet.

So when I say retirement changed the structure of my life, perhaps that’s an understatement.

There was no long stretch of mornings wondering what I should do with all my newfound free time.

Life had already answered the question.

For a while, this was what needed me.

I don’t think that’s unique to retirement.

It happens when children leave home—or come home.

When caregiving begins. And when it ends.

When we move.

When a relationship changes.

When we leave a job, start one, lose someone, become a grandparent, begin something we never expected to begin, or find ourselves living a life that simply doesn’t look quite like the one we pictured.

There’s a lot of talk about these moments as opportunities to “reinvent yourself.”

I’m not sure I want to reinvent myself.

I’ve spent 69 years becoming this person. There are parts of her I rather like. 😉

Maybe a new chapter doesn’t require a new character.

Maybe the better question is:

What comes with me?

When I retired, I didn’t leave behind the part of me that likes figuring things out.

I didn’t suddenly stop being curious.

I still liked creating things. Organizing things. Learning things. Helping people solve problems. Sitting down with an idea that wasn’t quite working and asking, Okay, what if we tried it this way?

Those things had been part of me long before retirement.

What changed was where I could use them.

Some parts of my old life no longer fit. Other parts finally had more room.

And there were parts I hadn’t discovered yet.

That surprised me.

I think we sometimes approach a major life change as though we’re supposed to immediately know what the new version of our life will look like.

We want the new routine.

The new purpose.

The new plan.

Preferably color-coded and written neatly in the planner by Monday morning. 😂

Real life tends to be messier than that.

There can be a strange in-between time when the old structure is gone but the new one hasn’t taken shape yet.

Some things you thought you’d want don’t hold your attention quite the way you expected.

Something you never planned becomes important.

People need you.

You change your mind.

You try something and discover it isn’t for you.

You try something else and wonder where that has been all your life.

Eventually, little pieces begin to settle into place.

Not because you sat down one afternoon and designed your perfect next chapter.

Because you lived your way into it.

That may be the part of transition we don’t talk about enough.

We’re allowed to find out.

We don’t have to know on Day One what this new season is supposed to become.

And we don’t have to discard everything that came before it just because the circumstances have changed.

Experience comes with us.

So do relationships.

Skills.

Curiosity.

Stories.

Mistakes.

Things we know how to do almost without thinking.

Things we still want to learn.

Even the parts of ourselves we may not have had enough time for before.

Maybe that’s one of the gifts hidden inside a changing life.

Not the opportunity to become somebody completely different.

The opportunity to discover what else the person we already are might do.

I’m still figuring that out.

My planner looks quite different these days.

But then again, so do my Mondays. ❤️