The spring weeding in our yard takes seven full days of real work — my husband and I both at it, surrendering to the scale of it because there is no other option. By day three you stop thinking about when it will be finished and just begin again.
Which means my mind has a lot of time to ponder.
Last Saturday I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. Just moving through the beds, pulling what didn’t belong, making room for what did. The kind of light meditation that only works when your hands are occupied and the task is too familiar to require your full attention.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I started thinking about Thomas.
Thomas and Bea have lived next door for as long as we have lived in our house. Twenty-seven years. The kind of neighbors you know well enough to trust but not well enough to call in a crisis. We would snowplow their driveway when it got too deep. They picked up packages when we were out of town. Friendly. Warm. Separate.
Thomas died recently. He had been in a nursing home for years. Before that, for longer than I fully registered, he had been disappearing quietly inside his own house.
Bea told me once, in the driveway: his life was all about work. He was in sales, worked from home, and when the job ended there was nothing underneath it. He stopped getting out of bed. Severe depression. Years of it.
I want to be careful here because this is a real man and a real family and what happened to them was not a lesson — it was a life. But I have thought about Thomas more than you might expect for someone I never knew well. About the sadness of a person for whom everything that sustained him turned out to be the same thing.
And about what it cost Bea.
She visited him every day. Every day, for years, watching him decline. We used to see him walking around the block occasionally, a window where it seemed like maybe things were turning. It must have been short lived. By the end he was barely a hundred pounds.
I cannot imagine what those years were like for her. The daily vigil. The slow grief of watching someone disappear before they are gone. The loneliness of a house where someone is present but already absent.
Here is the question that surfaced somewhere in the back beds on a Saturday morning in May:
What’s the difference?
Not asked with any smugness. Asked honestly, on my knees in the dirt, because the retirement identity cliff is real and I have felt the edge of it.
The easy answer is personality. I’m social. I have always been social. Thomas was more private, more oriented toward work as the primary container for his sense of self. Working from home in sales deepened that — no office to leave, no colleagues in the next room, just the house and the phone and the job. When the job ended, he was already home. There was nowhere to go because he had never really left.
But personality isn’t actually the answer. Or at least, it’s not the whole answer.
For a long time, I would have said the answer is practice. That I showed up, over and over, and built the thing.
But that’s the flattering version. The truer one is that something arrived first, and I had room in my life to let it in. The practice came after. You can’t practice a thing that never shows up.
It started without any intention at all.
A woman I knew from a bowling league — we’d been introduced through friends from the PTA. We were friendly. We had never had a real conversation. The choreography of school events where everyone is performing a version of fine.
And then one day we were on the same train into the city.
An hour each way. Nowhere to be but there. We started sitting with each other and just talking.
We started making plans. Dinners. The four of us. We added people slowly. A couple at a time, careful, never more than the group could absorb at once.
I remember the moment we reached four couples. I remember exhaling in a way I hadn’t known I was holding my breath. Not because we had enough friends. Because the group had locked into place. There’s a specific feeling when that happens, when it stops being a collection of individuals and becomes something with its own gravity. I recognized it the moment it arrived.
It took about two years. Today there are six couples. The thing has been growing on its own ever since.
Thomas, as far as I could tell, never had a train ride that turned into something. Maybe work took everything and there was nothing left over. Maybe he didn’t know he needed to.
Nobody hands you a list of what you’ll need when the career ends. Nobody says: build something underneath it, something that has nothing to do with your title or your deliverables or the way you matter inside an organization. The relationships that will hold you in retirement are the ones you tend in your thirties and forties, when you’re exhausted and overextended and could always find a reason not to show up.
You just have to figure it out. Or watch someone else not figure it out, from one house over, and let that be the warning.
I finished that section of the yard eventually. Bea was outside when I was wrapping up. She didn’t see me at first. I was on my knees, half hidden by the bush. I stood up and said hello. Asked how she was doing. She said, well, you know.
I didn’t say anything about Thomas. There was nothing to say that she doesn’t already know.
But I thought about him as I put the tools away. About the man who went to bed when work ended. About the walks around the block that stopped. About a life lived one house over that I witnessed without fully seeing.
And I thought about the woman on the train. The four couples that became six. The sigh of relief.
Thomas deserved that too.
The part that stays with me is that he didn't know it was happening until it was already done.
Was there a moment when something that became essential just quietly started? A train ride, a phone call, a driveway conversation. Tell me in the comments.
If this landed somewhere true for you — share it with a woman who needs to read it. And come back next Monday. We’re just getting started. 🌿
If this one stayed with you, these are in the same neighborhood:
I am pre-retirement and my husband is about to retire (ten years older) and I worry about his social life because, honestly, he doesn't really have one. It is me. And some family. But mostly me. Thank you for this insight.
There’s something so haunting about the idea that the relationships that may one day hold us are often the ones that begin almost accidentally, one train ride, one driveway chat, one "sure, let’s get dinner" we could so easily have skipped because we were tired and the laundry was performing a hostile takeover...