Chapter 1: The Shift to Retirement

After dedicating over 50 years to the newspaper industry, I stepped down as an executive at The Washington Post Company at the age of 66. The primary catalyst for my retirement was my new role as a caregiver for my spouse, who was facing the challenges of Alzheimer’s Disease.

Like many life transitions, this shift was influenced by various factors. The newspaper sector was grappling with the rise of the Internet, struggling against the likes of Google, Facebook, and Apple, which consumed original news content and disrupted traditional advertising revenue streams through sophisticated algorithms.

While I took pride in my ability to tackle business challenges and rejuvenate organizations, I recognized that the digital revolution posed a significant dilemma with no immediate solutions in sight. My professional journey, rewarding yet demanding, involved frequent travels from coast to coast and took a toll on my well-being, compounded by the inevitable effects of aging.

Retirement unveiled a profound sense of fatigue—an exhaustion that went unnoticed until I stepped away from my fast-paced routine.

It took some time to regain my footing. I adhered to a recovery plan that included regular exercise, adopting a Vegan diet, losing 45 pounds, joining the church choir, and participating on the board of Habitat for Humanity, while bracing myself for the caregiving challenges ahead.

Yet, something felt amiss.

One day, two enlightening ideas surfaced. The first was advice suggesting that one should always engage in creative pursuits. Given my background as a reporter and columnist, writing seemed to be my innate outlet.

But what should I write about?

Then the second idea struck me: for the past 50 years, my life had revolved around a daily “to-do” list. This was not mere workaholism; it was a discipline I had cultivated. While I had engaged in self-reflection and growth, I realized that what was lacking in my retirement was a coherent understanding of my narrative.

Recently, I stumbled upon insights from David Brooks’ book, “How to Know a Person,” which articulated my thoughts perfectly. He stated, “You can’t know who you are unless you know how to tell your story. You can’t have a stable identity unless you take the inchoate events of your life and give your life meaning by turning the events into a coherent story. You can know what to do next only if you know what story you are a part of. And you can endure present pains only if you can see them as part of a story that will yield future benefits.”

Determined, I resolved to write my life story for three main reasons. First, I believed it could serve as therapeutic reflection, compelling me to confront both the joyful and painful memories that had lingered in my mind. Second, I aimed to document the details of a life that could easily fade from memory—especially once my name no longer appeared prominently in online searches. Lastly, I hoped to create a legacy for my family, should they ever wish to understand the history I left behind. I also resonated with Brooks’ notion that clarity about one’s story can illuminate future directions and help one endure current hardships.

Being the kind of person who thrives on producing tangible results, I reached out to a former colleague who was knowledgeable about self-publishing on platforms like Amazon. I had no illusions about the potential popularity or profitability of this endeavor; that was not my goal.

Months later, I completed my story, titled “To Rise Above Ourselves,” pricing the paperback at $6 for easy access to the few who might be interested.

Now, at 77, what have I gained from this journey into my own narrative?

First, I achieved greater clarity, insight, and, crucially, accuracy regarding my life story. I learned to navigate the emotional complexities and conflicting narratives often shared by friends and family, requiring a closer examination of my past.

Fred Buechner, in his memoir “Telling Secrets,” acknowledged the doubts that arise when recounting one’s life: “Are the events the way they really happened?” There is a certain liberation in confronting the truth, whether it is celebratory or sorrowful.

Second, I recognized that my narrative is ongoing and continuously shapes my future. As Brooks emphasizes, “you know what to do next only if you know what story you are a part of.” The latter part of his statement prompts reflection: “…you can endure present pains only if you can see them as part of a story that will yield future benefits.”

So, how does one embark on the journey of discovering their own story?

Start by conversing with family and friends who possess knowledge of your history. You may uncover differing perspectives from siblings regarding shared childhood experiences. Explore those old boxes filled with photographs, letters, and documents; you might be surprised by what you find.

My father passed away in a car accident when I was just nine. My mother, a widow raising seven children, succumbed to cancer 12 years later. I sought out an aunt and two great aunts—one in her final days in a nursing home—who provided insights about my parents and filled in crucial gaps in my family history.

Another valuable approach to uncovering your story involves answering three questions that Brooks borrowed from a research professor: 1) What was a low point in your life? 2) What was a high point in your life? 3) What was a turning point in your life?

Reflecting on these questions can open doors to a deeper understanding of your life, fostering coherence, informed perspective, and guidance as your narrative unfolds.

And no, you don’t have to publish a book. You can compile a file of notes and memorabilia, maintain a journal, or even write a letter or email to someone you trust. Sharing stories in person or over the phone can enrich your relationships, especially if you also take the time to listen to their narratives. As Brooks suggests, engaging in this process can lead to enriching future outcomes.