I woke up early this morning with the kind of thought that sneaks up on a man when the house is quiet and his knees are already awake:
What did I want to be when I was a kid?
Not what I became. Not what paid the mortgage. What I wanted.
I can say with confidence that eight-year-old me did not dream of selling investments, managing portfolios, or staring at spreadsheets until my soul slipped quietly out the side door like a raccoon escaping a poorly built chicken coop.
Money is useful. I enjoy it. It buys boots and wood and time.
But it is a flimsy substitute for meaning.
Now, before you accuse me of whining, relax. I’m not weeping into my beard or asking anyone to validate my feelings. I’m simply noticing something that a lot of men over 55 eventually notice:
Somewhere along the way, we misplaced ourselves.
I read those glossy profiles of people with suspiciously satisfying lives. They all say the same thing:
“Even as a child, I collected ants. I knew one day I would become a world-renowned ant expert, eventually landing on the cover of National Geographic after discovering a cure for cancer hidden in an anthill in Uruguay.”
That person is a freak of nature. Good for them. We wish them well. Let them have the ants.
Most of us did not follow a calling. We followed a paycheck, a sense of duty, or the very reasonable desire not to screw things up too badly.
We chose careers the way a man chooses a winter coat at Canadian Tire: This seems durable enough.
And we told ourselves there would be time later for the things we actually cared about.
Now I watch my peers count the days until retirement, convinced that then life will begin.
Here’s the bad news, delivered plainly, like a doctor with integrity:
If you didn’t start living before retirement, you’re probably not going to start after.
I’ve listened to countless men say they can’t wait to retire so they can finally learn guitar, take photos, write, paint, or “be creative.”
Ninety-nine percent of them will not do those things.
They will babysit more.
They will walk the mall.
They will reorganize their garage and feel briefly powerful.
So what’s the alternative?
You do something now.
Not dramatically. Not heroically. Not with a social media announcement.
You steal time.
You steal it from work.
You steal it from the part of your life that has been running on autopilot for decades.
Here’s what’s surprised me: doing this hasn’t hurt my career or my family. It’s made me better at both.
Which confirms something I now believe firmly:
A man cannot succeed in only one area of his life.
If he does, the rest of him withers.
So, for those of us over 55 who feel vaguely hollow but still stubborn enough to fix things, here’s a simple framework.
Step One: Take Inventory (Without Pity)
Who are you, really?
Not your title. Not your obligations. What do you actually like doing?
This part is dangerous because it can slide into self-pity. Don’t let it. Self-analysis is not self-flagellation.
You are not static. Your interests will change. The trick is knowing when to let go—and when to double down.
Step Two: Write Things Down
Every day.
Yes, I know. Journaling sounds like something done by people who own crystals and pronounce “energy” with four syllables.
Ignore that.
Writing clarifies. It quiets the noise. It tells you what you actually think instead of what you’ve been repeating for years.
Don’t publish it. Don’t curate it. Just write.
This is maintenance, like sharpening a chisel.
Step Three: Read About the Man You’re Trying to Become
You are not inventing something new. Someone has done what you want to do—poorly, adequately, or brilliantly.
Study them.
You probably researched your lawn mower more thoroughly than you researched what kind of life you wanted.
Correct that.
Step Four: Make a Plan (Yes, Really)
You likely ended up where you are without a plan. I did.
So make one now.
Start with the end in mind. Decide what matters. Build small daily habits that move you—slowly, stubbornly—in that direction.
Use an app. Use a notebook. Use the back of an envelope. The tool does not matter.
Consistency does.
Step Five: Review and Adjust
Your life is a moving target. Review it.
Daily. Weekly. Yearly.
Return to step one often.
This is not a one-time repair. It’s upkeep.
Like a good canoe.
This approach is working for me. The hard part is continuing—resisting the gravitational pull of comfort and habit.
Living with purpose requires effort. More effort than drifting. But it’s the kind of effort that gives something back.
This blog, in many ways, is just me documenting that process. If it helps you, good. If you think it’s nonsense, also good.
At the very least, it’s keeping me from disappearing quietly.
And that feels like a solid use of a man’s remaining years.
Cheers.
Pierce.