I was standing in the security line at San Francisco International Airport when a sudden panic seized me.
I was 50 years old. I’d just quit my job as a hospital pharmacist, packed my life into two suitcases, and was on my way to Ajijic, Mexico, where I didn’t know anyone.
For months leading up to that moment, I’d been excited to retire abroad early and pursue writing, something I’d wanted since grade school.
But as I waited in that line, one frightening question kept repeating in my head: Was I making the biggest mistake of my life?
At first, I struggled with losing my identity and having freedom without structure
Before the move, my career was a huge part of my life. I’d spent years publishing research articles, speaking at international conferences, and acquiring multiple pharmacy specialty licenses.
Without that role, my sense of identity faded. Although I’d planned and saved, even losing a steady paycheck felt more like grief than freedom.
As I wandered through the cobblestone streets of Ajijic, listening to Spanish conversations all around me, I felt untethered.
I had to remind myself that I’d left that job because it no longer fit the life I wanted. Still, it took months to detach from my old life and begin cultivating a new identity.
One day, I was making breakfast at noon in the kitchen, unsure what to do next. I thought about my old work life: ICU rounds, medication management, and progress notes. My hours had a purpose then.
Now, each day blurred into the next.
I tried to recreate my old routine, but there was no hot yoga studio in town. Even grocery shopping looked different. Here, it meant going to several small specialty shops instead of one big supermarket.
I used to arrive early at work to write before my shift started, scribbling notes in checkout lines and waiting rooms. Now I had all the time in the world, yet every time I sat down to write, my thoughts scattered.
Finally, I realized why I’d felt lost: I wasn’t homesick for a place, but for structure. I decided I’d create it myself.
I filled my calendar with deadlines for writing competitions and essay submissions. I started writing a new novel, reconnected with the beta readers from my last one, and promised to post new chapters to stay accountable.
I began hiking the nearby mountains and joined a boxing gym to stay active. I also volunteered remotely with my alma mater’s pharmacy school to review students’ clinical skills exam recordings.
Gradually, my days settled into a steady rhythm of creativity and purpose.
In time, I learned to stop resisting a slower life
Life in Ajijic moves at a slow pace. The small shops close for midday siesta. “Tomorrow” can mean next week. Once, a handyman said he’d come at 9 a.m. to fix my water heater. He showed up at 2 p.m., smiling as if he were right on time.
Here, conversations linger. People pause to chat rather than rushing through transactions. After years of treating punctuality as a sign of respect and productivity as a virtue, I found this unhurried attitude frustrating at first.
Over time, the town softened me. I learned to breathe deeply, to laugh when plans fell apart, and to wait in long lines with patience.
Now, whenever I travel back to San Francisco, the angry bursts of honking and the hurried pace feel jarring. Ajijic has changed me from the inside out, one slow beat at a time.
Little by little, through writing, new friendships, and a fascination with Mexican culture, a new life started to take root.
Ultimately, redefining ‘success’ has helped me find peace in early retirement
For a long time, I believed success lived on a résumé: titles, accomplishments, and salary. When all that disappeared, I was forced to reevaluate what success meant in retirement.
Over the past three years, I’ve discovered a new version of success that includes health, peace, and creativity. To me, success is no longer a measure of worth but an alignment between how I live and what I value.
Between the crowing of roosters and the splendid sunset over Lake Chapala, I fill my days with what nourishes me. Since moving here, I’ve written several novels and published essays about my second act in Mexico.
My creative energy even extends to stage acting and improv, performing before live audiences, and rediscovering the joy of making people laugh.
Early retirement abroad isn’t about sitting on the porch and watching clouds drift by. It’s a journey of reinvention: shedding old definitions of success and pursuing what truly matters.
And I realize now that feeling disoriented and lost is part of reinvention and often the first sign of change.
Three years ago, standing in that airport security line, I thought I had thrown away a perfect life. Now I realize I was walking toward a different version of success.
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