I’VE JUST TURNED 69.
It’s a strange age; four years post a “typical” retirement age.
It’s an age when many of my peers are “elderly”, in poor health and showing signs of quiet resignation.
It’s an age perched on the cusp of 70, a milestone that carries with it weight, expectation and a quiet reminder of time. When people hear I’m 69, they often smile and say something like, “Well, you don’t look it”, or “You’re good for your age” or “That’s the new 50.”
I appreciate the kind comments, of course, but I know better.
69 is 69! The overall perception is that you’re old. Maybe washed out. A relic.
Even though I exercise regularly (walking about 20km per week and cycling about the same), sometimes my knee joints and muscles don’t let me easily forget it. The mirror in the morning has its moments but, apart from the limited amount of hair on my head, I still think I can pass for early 50’s….
Indeed, all in all, I consider myself lucky. I’m healthy, mobile and my mind is still sharp. I eat carefully—I’ve been a vegetarian for decades now—and I’ve avoided the usual temptations. No alcohol, no caffeine, no addictive substances. For nearly twenty-five years I’ve consciously kept my body clear of things that might cloud my judgement or dull my energy. In some ways, this discipline has been my safety net. I can look at myself and know I’ve done what I can to keep my body as strong as I can.
The Restlessness Beneath Contentment
BUT IF HEALTH is the best measure of well-being, why do I feel restless? Why, at the very moment when people tell me I should be content, do I feel as if I am still searching?
Turning 69 has forced me into examining this (and other) question(s).
After all, these are supposed to be my “golden years,” or so society in general would have me and other “seniors” believe.
This phrase always makes me smile wryly. Golden for whom? For those who choose to have their families around them every holiday? For those who can sit still and savour hobbies without restlessness gnawing at them? For those who feel complete in solitude?
I wonder if the word “golden” has ever truly fit me.
I know I have worked hard, but also can’t deny the relatively good fortune I’ve had. Financially, I am secure.
That last word carries a comfort but also a weight. It suggests stability, but it also suggests finality—as though the story is already written, the accounts settled and nothing more is required.
I have a varied portfolio built up over years of hard work: properties, deposits, insurance, investments. It isn’t the portfolio of a genius-type investor—I’m the first to admit that. It’s simply the result of years of diligence, care and discipline. But the end result is I don’t need to work another day in my life.
The Pull of Purpose
AND YET, I crave the buzz of working. I miss the urgency of projects, the rhythm of deadlines, the sense that something depends on me. I miss those bursts of energy that come from making a deal, solving a problem, or simply getting things done. Retirement, for me, has never felt like a reward. It actually feels more like an unfinished sentence.
This last milestone birthday has thrown that into sharper relief. At 69, society quietly begins to usher you toward the sidelines (probably even at 65 if truth be told). Your valuable life and business experience is seemingly less valued; your accumulated knowledge less useful.
People are polite but firm in their assumptions; start treating you differently; you’ve done your part, now enjoy a slower pace. The trouble is, I don’t want a slower pace. I want a purpose, something to get up for in the morning beyond the routine of staying fit, paying bills and keeping my apartment clean and tidy.
I’ve also been reflecting on what it means to have lived nearly seven decades. It’s not only a number—it’s a weight of experience. I’ve built and, unfortunately, for one reason or another, dismantled relationships; raised children who are now distant from me; navigated a career that gave me both joy and scars, and watched the world change in ways I could never have imagined as a boy.
And still, here I am, asking: Where do I go from here?
Some might say there is plenty to do: travel more, relax, enjoy life’s pleasures. But that has never been enough for me. I’ve never been wired for pure leisure, plus I travelled extensively with my various jobs over a 30-year period. So, whilst I know there is a lot I have never seen, I have seen a lot!
Even when I sit with a book, or when I’m enjoying a quiet walk, a part of my mind ticks away, searching for the next useful thing to do, the next project, the next challenge; the next thing to prove to myself.
Being 69, then, feels less like an ending and more like a beginning of a different kind. Not the kind of beginning where you have endless time, but one where you are forced to be honest about priorities. The future is shorter now, no question; the finality of life on the horizon. And that makes me restless—because if I don’t choose carefully, the years ahead could easily slip by in quiet repetition.
As I see this birthday pass, I find myself looking more and more at the horizon. What will my 70s hold? Will they be a decade of quiet retreat or of unexpected renewal? Can I shape them into something more, something meaningful, something that leaves me at peace when I finally look back for the last time?
I don’t know the answers yet. But I do know this: turning 69 has made addressing the questions unavoidable.
