Outside the Beige Walls

It started as a regular Friday, and I decided to have lunch with some coworkers. At some point, I started asking people what they were passionate about. Maybe that’s telling in itself. Put me at a table long enough, and eventually I want to know what makes people feel alive.

Then I asked another question: What would you do if you didn’t have to work?

The answers fascinated me.

One person said he would travel. That one I understood immediately. Another said he would do what he already does: play video games, hang out, relax and enjoy himself. Someone imagined buying a jet and flying from place to place.

And then there was the answer I couldn’t stop thinking about.

One person said everyone in his family works, so he plans to work for the rest of his life. He doesn’t really imagine retiring.

I remember thinking, Wow.

Because I dream of retiring tomorrow.

When it was my turn, I kept my answer simple: travel and write.

I didn’t tell them everything else happening in my head. I would travel slowly enough to actually experience the places I visit. I would write essays, poetry, stories and whatever else came out of me. I would speak, maybe teach a class here and there, create, meet people and learn things simply because I wanted to know them.

Mostly, I would own my time.

What fascinated me about everyone’s answers wasn’t deciding whose was right. It was realizing how much a silly hypothetical can reveal about the way we understand life.

Take money out of the equation and some people still choose work. Some choose rest. Some choose adventure. Some choose a more extravagant version of the life they already have.

I choose freedom.

And maybe I’ve known that for longer than I realized.

I’ve been traveling more because of it. I’ve been intentionally connecting with people because of it. I’ve been trying to experience my life instead of constantly postponing it until some imaginary future when everything is perfectly aligned.

The one thing I haven’t been doing enough of lately is writing.

That part bothers me.

I can talk all day about wanting to be a writer. I can imagine the essays, the travel stories, the speaking engagements and the unexpected email from someone who stumbled across my work and wants to give me an opportunity that changes everything.

And I genuinely believe life can happen that way.

Sometimes one person reads the right thing. One submission gets accepted. One conversation creates an introduction. One opportunity opens a door you didn’t even know existed.

But somebody has to have something to discover.

My therapist has reminded me of that too: I have to write. Not eventually, but now.

Maybe that’s the real reason lunch stayed with me.

The conversation wasn’t revealing some secret desire I’ve been afraid to admit. I already know what I want.

I know that if money weren’t necessary, I wouldn’t spend my days doing operational due diligence.

That doesn’t mean I hate my job. It doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful. And it doesn’t mean the years I’ve spent doing this have been wasted.

My job is part of my journey. I just don’t think it’s part of my purpose.

There was a time when I was genuinely excited about work. I wanted to know everyone. I wanted to go to lunch. I wanted to wander into people’s offices and talk. I thought about what moving up might look like.

Over time, some of that changed.

Recently, watching someone newer approach work with that kind of enthusiasm made me wonder whether I had lost something. Had I become too jaded? Had I let work kill my joy?

I don’t think so.

My joy is still incredibly easy to find. It appears when I’m planning a trip, when I’m somewhere I’ve never been, when I’m having a conversation that makes me think, when I’m connecting with someone, when I’m creating and when I’m writing, especially when I actually make myself sit down and do it.

My joy exists perfectly well outside of beige walls and brown office chairs.

I am still me.

Maybe that’s another thing I’ve had to learn: something can be valuable without being your calling.

A job can teach you, support you, challenge you, introduce you to people, pay your bills and fund the experiences that shape you without becoming the reason you believe you were put on Earth.

I don’t need to manufacture some grand purpose for my corporate job simply because it occupies a large percentage of my week. It can just be my job.

So when I say I dream of retiring tomorrow, maybe retirement isn’t exactly what I mean.

The life I imagine isn’t inactive at all. I’m traveling, writing, creating, speaking, learning, maybe even teaching and, of course, taking good care of the people I love.

I don’t dream of doing nothing. I dream of having the freedom to decide what is worth doing.

And since I already know what I would do if I didn’t have to work, maybe the more interesting question is: How much of that life can I build while I still do?

I don’t have the answer yet. Maybe that’s what I’m still pondering. I’ll come back to it in the next essay.