Mid-Year Review

Six months into retirement....

Greetings all!

Happy Thursday. I hope this week has been a good one. Our trip to Alaska was fun. I have some stories to share next week, but I wrote this on the trip over last week. Some reflections as I’m at the six month mark of retirement.

Some of you may choose to skip this, but if you’ve known me for a while, you may be interested. If you are in the window of retirement, you should be interested. Be forewarned. This is a long post.

So here we go…

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It’s Friday morning, August 1, 2025, and I’m officially jobless. Title-less. Role-less.

Also known as retired.

From this career, anyway. For the past 25 or so years, I’ve crisscrossed the USA and the globe doing management training and consulting. In between, I speak at HR conferences, which seed the very business that keeps the bills paid.

But I’m 61 now. I told myself I’d be done at 60 simply because that’s about the age (in my opinion) that a person becomes invisible (check) and dated in what they say (worried about this). I delayed a year to design a succession plan, sold off my IP, then taught my last workshop in Gonzales, Louisiana, on July 31.

I think I’m prepared. This day has been on the calendar for a while now. Business slowed enough that I’m not going to panic over a suddenly empty calendar. I’m approaching this phase strategically, like I did the career I’m moving on from. I was inspired by a guy named Keppel Bharath.

I met Keppel in 2012 while facilitating a management workshop for Pratt & Whitney Canada in Longueuil, QC. As a Fellow, he was part of a valuable team that oversaw overall quality and operations. He took me on a tour of the engine plant and showed me the process from parts arriving in crates all the way to the final engine test, where they throw frozen chickens into the engine to simulate bird strikes. I’m convinced he could have built an engine himself.

So when Keppel announced his retirement on LinkedIn a few years ago, he did it with a strategic plan covering all the details. And he kept us updated. He began biking. He went to seminary. He mentored young professionals, even my daughter for a time. A man with a plan and the time and energy to execute it. He continues to provide regular updates on his progress via LinkedIn. He’s an inspiration.

That would be me, I thought.

Retirement would be active. I would prioritize my walking and maybe even give in to Barb and start weight training. Pottery and sculpting would now get most of my attention. I would still take classes, and we could create more inventory for craft shows and markets since Barb had already retired. Then I’d focus on my writing. It was already a habit. I’ve blogged regularly since 2008. With Substack, I’d moved most of my business followers over to that platform and began attracting new subscribers. I wanted to write fiction. I developed a pen name. I outlined four short stories that would be featured in my first book, Four from the Dark Side. I began listening to fiction again, namely Stephen King, who inspired me to write back in the 1980s.

Of course, since I had such a strong network, I knew I’d be sought out often by former clients, peers, and colleagues. Conference planners would beg me to “please do that storytelling talk one more time for us.” I was already working through a list of responses to Barb when she’d say, “Hey, I thought you were retired! I hope you’re charging these people!” And there’d be no shortage of people wanting to be mentored. I’d need to create a waiting list.

But on this August morning, sitting at the airport waiting to fly home for the last time as a road warrior, reality is setting in. I log into LinkedIn and put the ending dates on my tenure at Boss Builders. I briefly brand myself as a storytelling and public speaking sensei at MACK Worldwide, then delete it.

Give yourself some time to breathe. You have your art and writing. No need to make a big decision.

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We take an RV trip the following week. Part celebration, part reorientation time. There is no cell service or internet. Just time to reflect and plan next steps.

And that’s when it sets in. A profound sense of depression and loss. An emotional weight behind my eyes that keeps attempting to shove tears past my eyelids. I expected to feel some loss, but this is nearly overwhelming. The weekend that was supposed to send me out of the gate like my ass was on fire was more like the banana peel I slipped on.

When we return, my routine isn’t really that different. What is different is that my calendar suddenly has no constraints. No speed bumps. No guardrails. It doesn’t take long for me to lose track of the days, particularly if I don’t have a constant to remind me. Before, it was a call with Lisa Young on Monday mornings and taking care of my mom on Fridays. Now I see my mom when it’s more convenient, and my weekly check-in with Lisa is gone. When I traveled, I’d sometimes wake up and it would take a moment to remember where I was or what rental car I had. I never thought I’d have the same problem here at home.

My only experience with this was “retiring” from the Navy in 1999. I was so amped that I didn’t mourn the Navy for one moment. And it wasn’t really retiring since I was only in for 15 years, but even still, I got a small pension.

When Barb retired in 2012 after 30 years, she did experience that sense of loss. Unlike me, she cherished her Navy career. She was good at it. Nothing ever came close to the fulfillment she experienced in uniform.

Even though I loved what I did at Boss Builders, I didn’t think I would mourn it. Over time, I could feel myself distancing myself from it emotionally. I knew I’d miss the crowds at conferences. The instant feedback you don’t get from writing. Hearing people laugh. I’d miss collaborating with colleagues, partnering on projects, and even co-facilitating. I’d miss the travel. Well, not really. I’d just miss being the grouchy old point- and status-hoarding road warrior at the airport who asks the first week of September, “Hey, when the fuck do you kids go back to school anyway?” I’d miss being an expert in something.

But I’d have the gift of time. Time to pursue my passions, old (art and writing) and new (sculpting and competitive BBQ). Nearly a million Southwest Airlines points to use to visit family and friends, and our still-nameless 25-foot Class C RV to see the country.

And yet, with all that, I was still depressed. When I’d get marketing list emails from Lisa Young, now working at Mt. Vernon Consulting, I felt a bit like a forlorn Pat Sajak watching Vanna White now yukking it up with Ryan Seacrest. It helped to see my therapist every other Friday (which I time to take place after I take care of my mom — I don’t like to ruin the mojo Dr. Dannie helps me unearth), but I think I was just processing not the loss of Boss Builders, but the loss of that version of me.

I miss Lisa like Pat misses Vanna…

A few months later, we took a trip to Jamaica, and that proved to be the retirement gift the RV trip should have been. I could feel the dark clouds thinning out. Maybe even seeing a hint of a beautiful sunset. A sun setting on a career I’m damn proud of. I think it’s important to reflect and maybe even evaluate.

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Here’s something I learned:

Retirement is a powerful word. Powerful in ways that are unique to each of us. My grandpa saw retirement as the day he was done with everything. Three years in, he never even got out of his pajamas all day. A year later he was in memory care. He lasted about a year there before he was gone. None of us want that, but I can see how it can sneak up on you.

Retirement is also a profession. At least we should treat it as such. When people used to ask me what I did, I had a few set answers:

“I’m a management consultant and facilitator.”
“I work with HR professionals who are sick and tired of dealing with the problems brought on by poor supervisors.”
“You know those bad managers you hear about who yell and scream and do inappropriate stuff? Well, I fix that problem.”

The first time I was asked the question post-retirement, I froze. I thought saying “retired” would make me look like I wore my pants up to my chest, smelled like mothballs, and ate dinner at 3 p.m. So, I said I was a former management consultant. Now I find that nobody really cares. They just nod and smile and say something like, “Ooh, how exciting!” Maybe I’ll tell people I’m a male swimsuit model or something.

Retirement means, in some cases, your income changes. Now that I live on a pension, I realize I’m getting paid to breathe. Aside from a few paid subscribers and the occasional book sale, I have no other income. And the government that pays it probably doesn’t root for me to draw it longer than absolutely necessary. I’m still trying to process that. I’m not comfortable not bringing in income.

Which brings us to today. Around six months since sitting rudderless in the Louis Armstrong International Airport and depressed on a lounge chair at Natchez Trace State Park. I’m on a plane heading to Fairbanks, Alaska — only the second time on a plane since August 1.

Six months is when I used to tell outplacement clients to ask for a salary review. Smart companies, at a minimum, do a mid-year review. At least the ones who listened to me when I beat them over the head with that request while I was in business.

Since I only report to myself now, I’ll just give myself the review. Maybe not even a review as much as lessons learned or learning in progress. You can be the boss and tune in — not to evaluate me, but maybe, like Keppel did for people, to get a map to follow if retirement is in your imminent future.

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Planning: Everyone has a plan until they try to execute it. Mike Tyson’s version of that is more impactful, but you’ve heard it too many times before. In my case, when my plan launched, it was more like getting punched in the face, kicked in the balls, and having someone drop a 50 lb. kettlebell on your little toe all at the same time. My plan is off life support but has lots of rehab in its future.
Grade: C-

Time Management: Time flies. When I was a seventh grader at Red Hill Lutheran School, I got an end-of-year award, as we all did. Fun things. I got the award for the most times praying, “Dear God, please make this day go by fast.” Looks like He finally answered that prayer a half-century later. The days move so fast I can’t keep track of them. Sadly, I see what a finite resource time is. Sometimes I find myself wishing time would move even faster, like during some visits with my mom when they are unpleasant. But for each awful moment I want to move past, suddenly I see that there aren’t that many left to replace them. Pleasant or unpleasant, moments in time are as temporary and fleeting as the cigarette smoke rings my dad used to blow for us when we were kids. I’ve wasted a lot.
Grade: D

Prioritization: Doing tasks in the most efficient way possible. In theory, this is my strong suit. I’ve learned over the years how to wedge lots of activity into little pockets of time and multitask as a rule. The day might be chaotic, but when it ends, everything is done perfectly. Bonus points if you get it done perfectly one second before the deadline.

But that was then. Now I’m finding it hard to prioritize between work, hobbies, and just general fucking around. When I have seven things to get done, none of them are touched, but a few new ones might get added. Now I could be lazy and say it’s my ADHD, but I don’t have ADHD. I’m just not good without constraints. Lisa used to keep my feet to the fire. Now I just pour gas on the fire and watch it burn.
Grade: F

Emotional Management: The ability to be a good human. This is a tough one. Even though I’m experiencing profound change, not everyone else is. Just like people are grouchy when they don’t feel good, the same thing happens when the pain is on the inside. Even though nobody else can feel it, you feel like they should and should cut you some slack. Then when they don’t, you get angry. The anger spirals downward, and the suction pulls other parts of you in. Sometimes things you love, like a hobby, trigger it when things don’t go well or you fail at it.

I know this because this is me. The past three years have brought several profound changes, not all of them welcome or pleasant. I can see how easy it is to become bitter and want sympathy from everyone. Fighting an internal battle that nobody is aware of. That on top of retirement.

And yet, there is no excuse. An explanation, maybe, but not an excuse.
Grade: F

Well, I could go on and self-flagellate some more or, like any good employee, give you an action plan. So here’s how I want to approach the second half of the first year of retirement.

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My 2026 Intention:

I intend to live in a way that leaves people steadier, stories sharper, art gentler, and my own spirit intact.

Step 1: Appreciative Inquiry – Remembering What I Loved Most

When I left the Navy in 1999, I framed a successful career as one that didn’t include any of the things I hated most about the military. Then I read about something called appreciative inquiry — looking at what you loved most about a thing, a relationship, or a career, and then doing things that move you toward the positive rather than running from the negative.

I took another look at the Navy. My favorite command? Guam. Why? Autonomy. An empathetic commanding officer. A boss who valued my creativity and perspective. Flexibility and the opportunity to create my own schedule. And no direct reports.

Sounds like the perfect formula for an entrepreneur. And you know the rest of the story.

But now, I must figure out what I loved most about Boss Builders and what I did there, and pull that together. That will be the foundation of what happens next.

Step 2: Work-Life Balance – Giving Everything the Attention It Deserves

If you’ve ever heard me speak, you know this is a contradiction. I’ve also blogged about it — how we should learn to separate work from life. There is no balance.

Well, that’s for people who work full time. For me, work and life now exist in the same space. My computer designs graphics for my pottery and sculpture and supports my writing. My hobby of art is done for joy, and what we make from it merely supports our habit. If my math is correct, we will have our pottery studio, equipment, tools, and glazes completely paid for by what we sell just about the time I turn 104.

But lately, the balance has been off. We powered through an 80-mug commission for the company that makes my signature hats, along with a bunch of singles. We’re building inventory for the Erin, TN Irish Festival in March. And like in sports, I caught a bad case of the yips. The last two glaze firings I’ve done had problems — basic stuff I’ve never experienced before. But I’m in a slump. I’m not even excited about sculpting anymore.

And that’s when I realized — today — that the balance is off. What was fun is now work. I’m taking it too seriously, and it’s killing the joy.

This Alaska trip will be a nice break. And I’ve found that when art flourishes, sometimes I get writer’s block. Maybe this is the opposite. Right now, the words flow like you-know-what after a 2 a.m. visit to Taco Bell. Hopefully, the quality is better.

Step 3: Move Forward

In the spirit of appreciative inquiry, what I loved most about Boss Builders was teaching. Telling stories that transformed the unfamiliar into the familiar. I enjoyed watching managers build their skills and confidence. And I enjoyed teaching workshops using art with pen and pastels.

This past December, Barb and I visited the holiday markets at Mud Puddle Pottery, where we take classes and sell our work, as well as the markets of two other big studios in Nashville.

When we walked into Ceramic Souls in East Nashville, one of the young artists came up to me.

“I know you from somewhere,” she said accusingly.

Now I was nervous.

“From where?”

“I recognize your voice. You taught a workshop I was in.”

It turns out she was a supervisor at the Plato’s Closet store in Clarksville when I used to teach management workshops there on Saturday mornings.

I asked her what she remembered from the workshops, and would you believe it?

“The three-legged stool of great performance,” she exclaimed proudly.

I was proud too. And then it hit me.

I need to teach art.

Which brings us to today. Assuming I don’t freeze to death, get eaten by a bear, or get gored by a moose, I’m going to teach a surface decorating class at Mud Puddle Pottery this May. I hope it leads to more opportunities.

And I’m going to keep art in its proper place. Not get frustrated when things fail. And they do. I’ve just been so lucky for so long that when I did fail, I took it personally. I don’t know much about chemistry, but it seems like heating stuff to 2,000 degrees opens you up to the occasional clusterfuck in the kiln.

As for writing, my goal is to keep the process going. I’m updating two of my most popular business books, How to Build Better Bosses and How to Win at Performance Management. At the same time, I’m working on Volume II of The Art of Storytelling and completing a yet-unnamed manuscript for a book on power and influence that I plan to release in May in conjunction with a conference where I’m scheduled to speak. Plus, of course, keeping up with the weekly Substack and book releases.

Relationships

In October, 2019, we signed up with a group to take a spring river cruise on the Rhein that May. I was looking forward to it since I knew most of the group. One guy in particular, Bill Glensor, was a funny guy I used to fill communion cups with on Sunday mornings on the welcome team — where I met Lisa Young, by the way — at church. I couldn’t wait to hang out and get to know him better.

Bill died of a heart attack a couple of days after Christmas. Of course, COVID took away our cruise too. I wish I had the chance to hang out with him.

A few months ago, a couple we knew from Maryland, Randy and Georgia, came out to our place for a visit after relocating to Tennessee. I did an all-night brisket. I knew Georgia. I taught some workshops at church with her years ago. Randy was more of a mystery — an older guy with a long ponytail and beard. He played a Native American flute. They had an RV and traveled all over the country. Now in their 70s, they had sold the big diesel pusher and bought a small van-style RV. They still planned on traveling.

We had a great time, and I loved talking with Randy. I wished I had known him better back in Maryland. We committed to getting together again. Since we have full RV hookups on the property, we hoped they’d come and spend more time with us.

But we never put anything on the calendar.

Then, two weeks ago, Georgia told us via Facebook that Randy had leukemia. Sudden. She said there were some clinical trials, but he didn’t want them. They arranged for hospice. I thought about calling to check in on him but figured he was probably busy playing his flute and surrounded by friends. I thought I’d have time.

Until this morning, when Georgia’s Facebook post told us Randy passed away on February 17.

I was already starting this, but my plan is to reconnect with people. And it has to be me, because I’ve found that once you’re gone, you’re sort of forgotten. Those calls for ideas or to “pick my brain” never came. So now I’m going to reach out. For me and for you.

My old friend Kurt and I have a standing happy hour every three weeks or so. I try to meet my friend Mike for breakfast every few weeks while he’s in between jobs. My sculpting class is my family too, and since most of us are retirees, it’s therapeutic.

My calendar is pretty open. Happy hour can be any hour when you retire. I’d love to catch up with you.

Decisions

If there were a holy trinity of things I love, it would be art, writing, and competitive BBQ. I haven’t done competitions in about two years because of business travel. I’ve signed up for one this May, a local one in Clarksville. I want to see if the fire is still there. If not, I’ll probably sell my competition rig and just focus on cooking for family and friends.

Since time is finite — and I waste it by default — it’s best to pare down the distractions. Even Aerosmith frontman Steven Tyler said, about sobriety:

“Sex, drugs, and rock & roll is great. But without the drugs, you get more time for the sex and rock & roll.”

Finally

That’s it. I’ve written this first draft on the flight from BNA to SEA. When I got on, I was depressed because of the pottery yips, the platter we created as a gift that cracked, and reading the news about Randy.

I don’t know what this will look like after I edit, but I might just leave it raw.

Raw is what life is, isn’t it?

I wish I had more pump-you-up, rise-and-grind material to help you roll out of bed with purpose, but it doesn’t work that way. Most of the time, it’s just one heavy foot flopping out in front of the other.

We’re all in the same fight.

Proud to stand shoulder to shoulder with you.