There’s a common assumption that retirement is supposed to look like easing off.
Less responsibility.
Less ambition.
Less structure.
And certainly less… momentum.
I’m not sure that’s entirely true.
Slowing down physically?
Sometimes, yes. My hip has opinions.
But slowing down mentally?
Not so much.
A few years ago, when I realized I was bored enough to bring a Labrador puppy home, that should have been my first clue.
Nobody brings a Labrador puppy home because they’re hoping for a quieter life.
That is not how puppies work.
I’ve never been particularly drawn to stillness.
My life was full long before retirement — work, four kids, school in the margins, field trips, deadlines, papers due at midnight, meals to cook, places to be. Every day was different.
I’ve always preferred work where no two days looked quite the same.
Change never bothered me. In fact, it was often where I did my best work.
Momentum felt normal.
So when retirement arrived and the pace shifted, I assumed I was slowing down.
It turns out I wasn’t.
I was redirecting.
The puppy wasn’t about structure. You don’t “structure” a Labrador. You adapt. You react. You adjust. You move faster than you planned to.
That felt oddly familiar.
And once I started leaning into that feeling again, I didn’t stop.
I built things.
I wrote things.
I crate trained a puppy.
I learned how to use machines that required YouTube explanations.
I figured out formatting and copyright applications and platforms that didn’t exist when I was raising children.
Not because I was trying to prove anything.
Because forward motion feels natural to me.
It unsettles me when it’s missing.
Not in a frantic way.
Not in a prove-yourself way.
But in the quiet sense that something inside me works best when it’s building, solving, adjusting, or learning.
The Labrador certainly helped with that.
Extra vacuuming.
Extra outdoor repairs.
Landmines to locate and remove.
Holes to fill.
Fences to reinforce.
And then there was the constant calculation — trying to anticipate her next move, her next escape attempt, her next object of destruction, and intervening before it happened.
She was a puzzle.
A moving target.
A daily exercise in adaptation.
It turns out I don’t mind a little chaos — as long as it requires thinking.
Have I slowed down?
Physically — yes.
I can’t stack my days the way I once did. Things take longer. Recovery matters. Physiotherapy now has a regular place in my calendar.
But slowing down isn’t the same as shrinking.
The pace has changed.
The difference now is choice.
For many years, my energy was directed by necessity — schedules, paycheques, obligations, other people’s priorities. I showed up because it was required. I worked because it needed doing.
Now the movement is self-directed.
I write because I want to explore an idea.
I build because I’m curious whether I can.
I learn because something interests me.
The effort is still there.
The difference is ownership.
I’ve wanted to publish for more than thirty-five years. I just didn’t have the time — or the tools — to make it real.
Now I do.
So I’m using them.
Momentum looks different now.
It’s not four lanes at once.
It’s deliberate.
It’s chosen.
And it’s occasionally interrupted by a Labrador who barks at the back door when she wants out, barks at me when she wants to play, and absolutely announces when it’s supper time.
She has opinions too.
If you’ve found yourself wondering whether you’ve “slowed down,” it might be worth asking a different question.
Have you stopped moving — or have you simply changed direction?