I accidentally retired from my decades-long career. The adjustment came with a larger identity shift.

One morning, after my husband drifted to his home office, I started a load of laundry and stood listening to the machine hum, the familiar hiss of water filling the drum.

I thought, “Now what?” I’d recently begun calling myself “a retired marketing and PR professional.” It seemed strangely final.

There was no gold watch, no announcement, no clear ending — just a word that appeared in my bio without fanfare.

I’d been working full-time in some form since I was 19 and built a long career in PR and marketing.

I became someone through my work: a person whose days had shape, whose worth could be measured.

And then, I was no longer that person.

Right before the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, my husband and I strategized about moving from our home near Washington, DC, to a slower pace in coastal North Carolina.

His job could be done remotely, and I assumed, due to my nine-year tenure at in my current role, mine could, too.

I thought my proposal to work remotely was ironclad, and there were green lights at every intersection until, at the eleventh hour, there weren’t.

I was told my role “demanded” an incumbent in the office in Virginia.

I told myself this was temporary, a detour.

Then the pandemic hit, and suddenly everyone was working remotely.

The irony that this included all my former colleagues was not lost on me.

The differences in the economic and employment opportunities between our new town in North Carolina, a small beach community, and our northern Virginia home are vast.

I first joined a small marketing firm, where I was tasked with promoting local businesses.

Next came a part-time, remote communications role with a statewide nonprofit newsroom.

The urgency of the rapid news cycle fueled by the pandemic was intense.

Soon, my part-time hours became full-time, without additional benefits.

The organization struggled financially, and with no marketing budget to speak of, I could not succeed in my role.

For most of my life, I was someone with a title, a salary, and a place to be.

In some ways, it was my choice to step away, but I still wondered, without work, would I feel valued?

And, despite my husband’s efforts to convince me otherwise, I doubted my value as a contributing member of our household.

Focusing on my writing, something I rarely had time for when I was working a demanding job, has helped me become comfortable with days that no longer announce themselves through meetings or deadlines.

To ease my guilt about no longer “earning,” my husband, a financial advisor, recommended that I take my Social Security benefits and draw down my retirement account earlier than I’d planned.

Now, we prioritize travel, seeing places we’d always put off while dealing with the needs of growing families.

I write, go to the gym, volunteer, meet friends for dinner, and attend performances.

Would I have felt differently if I had the ceremony of a traditional retirement, said the formal goodbyes?

I don’t know, but I know the identity I had tied to a long career may have changed, but my present doesn’t need to include a life scheduled down to the hour.

No one is waiting for me to log in.

I think that means I’m right on time.

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