I retired from teaching in June of 2022, after thirty-five years in middle school science classrooms. A lot of people have asked me what it’s like, usually with an envious look that suggests they’re expecting me to describe a continuous vacation. I’m going to try to give an honest answer.

The first thing they don’t tell you is that you’ll miss structure more than you expected. I know this sounds like the complaint of someone who can’t relax — my wife has said as much — but there’s a difference between choosing not to have structure and having it removed. For thirty-five years, September through June, my life had a shape. Bell schedules, lesson plans, the particular rhythm of a school building that you stop noticing until it’s gone. I spent a lot of last July not knowing what to do with Tuesdays.

The second thing is that you’ll develop more opinions about coffee than you did before. This is a Portland problem specifically. When you’re working, you make coffee in the morning and drink it. When you retire, you start thinking about the coffee. I’m not proud of this.

The third thing — and this one is genuinely good — is that your relationship to weather changes completely. When I was working, a rainy November was just a rainy November. Now a rainy November is a reason to stay in the shop and work on something. A clear day in March is a reason to go somewhere. Weather has become information rather than an obstacle, which is a significant quality-of-life improvement in the Pacific Northwest.

I’ve been hiking more. I’ve been finishing woodworking projects that sat as lumber in my garage for years. I drove down to the coast twice last fall just because I felt like it. None of this is exotic, but all of it feels like mine in a way that’s still a little new.

The harder parts are real too. The loss of professional identity takes some adjustment. I was a teacher for a long time, and “teacher” was a significant part of how I understood myself. I’m still working out what comes next in that department. “Retired teacher” is accurate but backward-looking in a way that doesn’t sit quite right yet.

A friend who retired two years before me told me it takes about eighteen months before you stop feeling like you’re on an extended summer break and start feeling like this is simply your life now. I’m at seven months. I’ll check back in.