A few years ago, I found myself in a strange place — stuck in a career that felt like it’d run out of road, yet not quite close enough to retirement to get excited about what’s next. It’s a limbo of sorts. My husband retired four years ago, and while I was genuinely happy for him, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of envy. His days were suddenly his own — no alarms, no deadlines, just the freedom to choose.

That envy simmered quietly until a Monday trip to Chester during term time. The streets were calm, the cafés uncrowded, and the museums blissfully quiet. We wandered behind groups of retired couples, all dressed in matching jackets and sensible shoes, each with a little backpack slung over their shoulders. It was oddly charming — and slightly unnerving. Had they consciously coordinated their outfits, or had they simply spent so much time together that they’d begun to mirror one another?

As I watched them, something clicked. I realised retirement wasn’t quite right for me — not yet. I wasn’t ready to trade purpose for leisure, or structure for spontaneity (not that my husband is spontaneous by any means). There’s still something inside me that wants to create, contribute, and feel useful. That day in Chester didn’t make me long for retirement — it made me realise I’m still searching for what comes next.