Glory Days, Redux

A friend I’d spent decades with in Big Law asked me a question several years ago, shortly after we’d both retired, that’s stayed with me: “How do you feel that high again — the one you got when you were at the top of your field?”

My friend had interpreted complex tax law for some of the world’s largest companies, and his question came from a conversation with his friend, who styles celebrities for events including the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Gala. While both were at the top of their fields, I felt their question really resonated with everyone: Is it possible to recapture your glory days, whatever they might be?

My friend thought it might be something I’d write about, but for a long time, I didn’t know how to answer. My own career high had faded; what I missed after retiring wasn’t altitude but having a fresh target for my unemployed energy.

My domain was smaller: rising from a secretary to the executive suite. But no matter the scale, it took decades of focus and care for each of us to get good at what we did and to feel the satisfaction of seeing the results. When you reach that level, your competence is assumed. Things move more easily — your judgment is trusted, your work is sought out, your consistency is taken for granted. And it feels good because it confirms what you’ve worked so hard to build. Retiring puts you back at the starting line.

What’s taken me time to understand is that retirement changes you, but slowly. At first, you only see what you’ll lose — the reputation, the recognition, the level you’ve grown used to. But retirement is a kind of personal excavation, and little by little, you start to see what’s underneath.

I briefly wondered if my restlessness was just my ego missing the executive perks. But that wasn’t it. The recognition felt good because it confirmed that I’d done my work well. What I needed was a place where my unused drive could land.

For me, that’s mostly meant wrestling with a clumsy paragraph to turn it into something true to me. But I find it even in smaller things, like the almost ridiculous excitement I felt last year from growing a perfect Cinderella pumpkin from a seed. I’d gaze out the window at it every morning that autumn, not because anyone else saw it was wonderful, but because I did.

And what surprised me was how good it felt. No congratulatory emails, no Better Homes & Gardens feature and photo shoot. Just the satisfaction of getting something right, down to the details. And there was that zest you feel when you’re deep in the doing, and it comes together.

There’s also something important many of us don’t like to admit — you can’t hang on to the old high forever. Change happens in every phase of life. Eventually that world changes, the energy shifts, the room moves on. And the old recognition dissolves into the past. There’s no avoiding that. But the drive that created it —  that you keep.

I’ve watched my friend navigate his new world of photography. He isn’t dabbling. He studied it; he works at it regularly, channeling the same drive and rigor he had as a lawyer, now into mastering light and composition. He’s all in.

For me, if recognition comes for my writing, it comes. I’m not chasing endorsement these days. Somewhere along the way the work itself became the point.

I think I may have the answer for my friend now: the high sprang from the rigor we brought to the work. You might miss the altitude at first, but you don’t have to cling to the old role to feel it again. You choose something new to focus on, you set your own standard, and you work it. And the lift that comes from feeling yourself do it well is just as charged as the old high ever was.