By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
Have you ever had the future sneak up on you?
I always thought it was the nature of the future to remain comfortably distant. You could see it—it was definitely there—but it stayed far enough away that it didn’t require much attention. And I don’t mean something ominous or looming. Not some dark thing waiting to happen. I mean anything of significance at all. The future was always a dot on the horizon—visible, acknowledged, but easy to ignore.
And then, all of a sudden, that far-off speck is no longer a speck. It’s right in front of you.
And quite frankly, it can be a little disconcerting.
I’m learning this now, as my future is looking me straight in the eye—and I can tell you what shade of mascara it’s wearing.
My quickly approaching future is probably not what you’d expect. What’s coming for me, faster than I ever imagined, is retirement.
Now before you form any preconceived notions, I’m not exactly what you’d call typical retirement age. I wouldn’t describe myself as a spring chicken by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps I’m more of a late summer pheasant. I’m not quite an autumn turkey yet, and surely winter buzzard is still a good ways off.
And yet, here I am at the ripe old age of forty-five, with retirement staring me in the face.
Don’t get me wrong—the idea of no longer working is not unpleasant. The thought of doing with my days whatever I feel inclined to do is, quite honestly, lovely. But somewhere underneath that loveliness is something else. Something I didn’t expect.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m a creature of habit and not particularly fond of change, or if it’s some strange subconscious resistance to the idea that a significant portion of my life is closing. It may be a mixture of both. Or it may be something I haven’t quite uncovered yet.
All I know is that the whole thing feels unfamiliar—and I’m not entirely sure what to do with that.
I certainly wasn’t thinking about early retirement back when I was working my way through college. I picked up temp jobs the summer after high school, and aside from a brief stint elsewhere, I’ve been at the same major university ever since. Back then, it was just a job. Nothing more. Even when I landed a permanent position, it was simply steady, reliable work.
Where I am now was, at the time, just another distant mark on the horizon.
Not particularly noteworthy.
Not something I gave much thought to at all.
Which is why my anxiety has caught me so completely off guard.
For quite a while, I shared the news with excitement. I was thrilled at the idea of leaving behind the daily grind. But now…now it feels different. Now it feels unsettling.
It feels like I’m about to toss something solid out the window.
And I know—that’s likely an outlandish way to think about it. The truth is, nothing is being taken from me. If anything, something is being given. Time. Freedom. Possibility.
But there is a strange comfort in the known, even when the known is routine, even when it is ordinary.
And stepping away from that—even toward something good—feels a bit like stepping off solid ground.
I suppose this is the part no one really talks about.
Not the excitement of what comes next, but the quiet uncertainty of leaving behind what has been.
Maybe that’s what the future really is.
Not just something far off in the distance, but something that, when it finally arrives, asks you to loosen your grip on what you’ve known…even if what waits ahead is something wonderful.
And maybe—just maybe—that uneasy feeling isn’t something to fear.
Maybe it’s simply the feeling of standing at the edge of something new.
Prose and Possibilities 