Letting Go One Step at a Time

Letting go of my professional license, redefining my identity. 

I have been retired for just over three years now. And I am still in the process of restructuring myself and my life. I realize that I have needed to do this at my own pace, as I believe that we all do. For me, the pace is slow. That’s ok. 

Life these past several years has been, and continues to be, a process of letting go. Letting go of possessions that I no longer need. Of material items that are baggage that are not necessary for this final leg of the journey. 

And now, letting go, even more, of one of the ways that I have defined myself.

 I was a social worker in my career. I am grateful for the work that I did, and like to think that I may have made a difference for some people, may have touched a few lives, may have helped a few feel a bit less alone along the way. I hope so.

And, having turned 70 this year, I realize that I want to stop the bi-annual renewal of my professional license. To put it on inactive status. What an interesting choice of words, yes? Inactive. I must remember that this relates to the term social worker, not to the term human being. 

I do not intend to go back to work, with the grace of God. And I no longer see myself as a social worker. I am ready to let go of that label.

So, that leaves me with the question of who I am now. Letting go of this license brings up so much more than what is apparent on the surface. But isn’t that true about a lot of things? There is often so much more than what we see on the surface with any major decision that we make. 

This is a license that I worked very hard to get. First the college degrees, then the required number of hours of interning, and finally an oral and written exam. I remember feeling such joy and a sense of accomplishment when I finally got the license. I made it! 

And, through the years, I was glad to to take the required number of continuing education classes each year to maintain that license. It was important to me, feeling a part of that group of students, a part of that piece of the population. A place where I was a member and belonged, spoke the common language. It was what I did.

 And, in some ways, it also became how I defined myself and my role in the world. As so many of us do. We tend to equate what we do with who we are. We are more than that, certainly, but in the shortened conversations where we are categorized and named, it can easily become a trap that we fall into.

The years go by, and we do our job, doing our best to fulfill what, and who, our title says that we are.

Until it’s time to retire.

 I remember walking out of the building on my last day of work, taking my few possessions from my office home with me, driving away for the last time. It was over, just like that. All those years. All that work. All that effort. All that struggle and reward. Over. 

 I wasn’t ready to let go of the license yet. I found that I renewed it when it came due, with the thought of you never know, I might still use it, I might still need it. 

 I don’t need it. And I don’t intend to use it. I may still take classes that interest me, but no longer for the requirement to keep my license active. 

I am done with that. 

It’s an odd feeling. Bittersweet. Relief. Wistful. A bit disorienting. 

It’s ok. It’s time to fully face that I have ended that part of my life, that part of my identity, that part of my structure and role. 

So, who am I now? 

I am still a work in progress. 

I am done with that career. 

I am not done with my life, not done with growing and learning and living. 

I am done with going to work amidst all the other workers, being part of that gloomy mass on Monday mornings, and gleeful group on Friday afternoons. I am now part of another group. The retired group. The elders. 

Every day is like a weekend now. I am grateful.

It comes with a price, this joyful time. It comes with aging and all that aging brings. Trying to maintain as much health as I can, while acknowledging the inevitable and eventual decline of this human body. 

It comes with a bit less energy and a bit more caution. With an awareness of increased vulnerability and the need to take the best care of myself that I can.

And it comes with the freedom to finally define myself by everything that is not a career or what I do for a living. 

I can dare to call myself a writer. I can dare to call myself an artist. Because I love to write and paint and spend time doing both. 

And I am still more than that.

I am a woman who is aging, who has lived on this earth for 70 years and has stories to tell to anyone who may be interested. Paintings to create that seem to come through me and not from me, as does my writing. I am the channel, it seems. And grateful.

I am here to still live and to love. To connect with those whom I choose. How delightful to discover that I can be pickier about that these days, realizing that time grows shorter and I want to spend it intentionally, with those whom I choose. 

I am alive. And perhaps defining myself as a human being is more than enough. 

I don’t need a license for that.