I was a Plant Operations Foreman for 30 years, standing on concrete floors solving every mechanical problem. I was confident I was a man of many life skills, experienced in all things. Yet, at the age of 56, I lost the most important thing a person can have: Purpose.
Eight months ago, the company signed my retirement papers, and I thought I was entering the stage of life's enjoyment. But... this period turned out to be the hardest time of my life.
I often slept late and stayed up late. I shuffled around the TV. My beard, once neatly trimmed every morning, now looked truly disgusting—scruffy, shapeless, like a homeless man. But then I asked myself, what's the point? Why shave to prove something to the pizza delivery guy?
And so, my life drifted. The more it did, the more I felt suffocated and irritated. I snapped at my son when he called to remind me to eat. At first, I mumbled a quick 'yes' to end the call. Later, I didn't even bother to answer his calls. I frequently argued with Jon, the annoying neighbor, who always managed to tick me off. I had become a lonely, irritable man who felt trapped.
I knew what I was doing, but I couldn't fix this broken machine: Myself.
The Erosion of Self and the Silent Void
This is how purpose leaves you: not with a bang, but with a slow, silent erosion of your routine.
I was once the master of the clock, the one who dictated the factory’s schedule. Now, time was meaningless. I stopped knowing if it was Tuesday or Friday. I stayed in old T-shirts and sweatpants.
I resented my son's calls because I didn't want anyone to see me like this. I was the man who always solved problems; now, my life was the only problem I couldn't solve. I sought escape in video games—the only place I could still control something. The house, my ultimate prize, had become my cage.
The Climax: 6 AM and the Body’s Betrayal
The change came when my son and my 8-year-old grandson came to stay for a short while.
One morning, at 6:00 AM, when I was trying to fall back asleep, the giggles downstairs woke me up. My resentment peaked at this uninvited joy. I stormed downstairs in my scruffy beard and old T-shirt.
My son was in shorts, ready to run. "Dad, join us! The little guy and I are going for a run around the park!"
I had stood on concrete floors for 30 years. The foreman's knees were worn out from the pressure. But I couldn't say No to my grandson.
It took 30 yards. My knees flashed pain like an electric shock. The familiar ache of the working man. I had to stop, hands on my knees, gasping for air. My son and grandson had to turn back. My grandson had to turn back and say, "Grandpa, are you okay?" My body had betrayed the man who always had control.
A few days later, my son wheeled a simple, dark blue mountain bike into the garage. He didn't speak. He spoke in action.
The Self-Prescribed Medicine: Following the Legacy
The next morning. 6:00 AM.
I did the one thing I never did in my career: I followed their lead.
While my son and grandson ran, I cycled behind them.
The Compromise: My legs burned, but my knees did not complain. It was the good kind of pain—the pain of honest effort, not the pain of destruction.
The Sound of Life: I no longer heard the roar of the machines. I heard the gentle click of the bike chain, the tires rolling over the dew. That was the sound of clean life, a new structure.
The Emotional Image: I cycled a safe distance behind them, close enough to hear their laughter. I wasn't the leader. I was following my Legacy.
I started trimming my beard again. I still wear old T-shirts, but they're clean now. Because I found a new Purpose—the responsibility to stay fit so I can keep up with the two most important people in my life.
The Takeaway: Maintenance of the Self
If you are letting your beard get scruffy and your life drift away, you don't need therapy. You need a new tool and a reason to get out of bed.
My prescription was this bicycle. It taught me that Maintenance of the Self is just as important as Construction of a Career.
You are a rider. You are writing your own prescription. You are in control.
