I have recently recommitted myself to catching up with old friends.
Most recently, I was able to spend some time with a retired Master Chief who shed the uniform over a decade ago and just recently decided to retire fully. Decades ago, he and I served together in Adak, Alaska, where I was an Ensign, and he was a Petty Officer Second Class. Seeing his face and hearing his voice instantly brought me back to my 23-year-old self. Since those extremely formative days, two Navy careers and so much more have come and gone.
Anxious to catch up, we didn’t spend much time looking in the rearview mirror. Instead, we focused on our present good fortune and our new life challenges.
Unlike me, he is what I refer to as “retired retired.” By that I mean that he is not only retired from the military, but also retired from the workforce. To me, and unlike merely retiring from the military, that term carries the heavy weight of finality. That finality is likely the primary reason I have yet to make the same leap. As we talked, it became clear that he felt differently. He didn’t see it as finality. His fire hadn’t dimmed; it had simply found a new hearth.
We spent the majority of our time speaking about the transition from a life defined by a uniform to a life defined by presence. For me, the most thought-provoking part of our exchange wasn’t about what he left behind, but where he is leaning in. It wasn’t about losing relevance, but about shifting the audience to which he is committed to being even more relevant. The days of workmates stopping by his cubicle for mentorship and guidance may be gone, but his commitment to impacting those closest to him, his family, is deeper than ever. In fact, the night before our meetup, he asked to delay by an hour so he could make his son’s lunch and give him a proper send-off to school. An intentional act of fatherhood he wasn’t able to prioritize just three months ago.
It is easy to tether our identity to the responsibilities we hold or the number of people who look to us for a decision or guidance. We often mistake the platform for the person. But when the specific role disappears, we are faced with a choice: do we mourn the loss of our old stage, or do we realize that our wisdom, our warmth, and our character are needed even more urgently elsewhere?
Relevance need not be a finite resource that expires with a final paycheck. It is a portable gift.
My friend is now pouring his decades of intentionality into his family, his local community, and the quiet mentorship of those who may never know the details of his past achievements. They don’t need to see his resume to feel the impact of his character.
We are always more than our occupations. When we stop trying to be relevant to a system, we become deeply relevant to the people right in front of us. Leaving the workforce can be a deliberate pivot from the breadth of a professional reputation to the depth of a personal legacy.
Regardless of the season we find ourselves in, we must remember that our value is not defined by our employer, our job title, our paycheck, or a carefully curated social media presence. Our relevance remains intact as long as we are willing to share our light with a new audience.
- If your current title disappeared tomorrow, who would still look to you for guidance and why?
- Are you holding onto a version of relevance that no longer serves your current season of life?
- How can you intentionally shift your focus toward those who need your character more than your credentials?