There’s a quote I return to often when speaking to clients facing retirement: “You are not what you do, but what you do becomes part of who you are.” For many of us, work isn’t just about earning a living. It structures our days, gives us a sense of contribution, and—for better or worse—becomes a large part of our identity. Which makes the business of stopping rather more complicated than simply handing in your keycard and buying a new pair of walking boots.
In Denmark, the government has announced that the retirement age will be raised to 70 from 2040. It’s a headline that has stirred conversation—and not just because it gives new meaning to the phrase “long-term career goals.” At its core lies an uncomfortable question: if we are living longer, are we living *well* longer? Or are we simply prolonging the moment when many of us fall off the edge of the working world into a psychological freefall we didn’t see coming?
Because here’s the truth we don’t talk about much: retirement can be hard on your mental health.
Life After Structure
Work gives us many things beyond a salary. A reason to get up in the morning. People to talk to. A sense that we are doing something that matters—whether that’s teaching a classroom, fixing a boiler, or answering emails no one reads. It provides rhythm and ritual. Even our complaints—about meetings, colleagues, the commute—give shape to our days.
So when that stops, the silence can be deafening. Clients often tell me they didn’t expect to feel *lonely*. Or that the days feel *strangely long*. Some feel useless. Others say they feel unmoored, even invisible.
“When people are at the centre of their universe through their job, we don’t have a storyline or a place in our society that is attractive enough to say, ‘Maybe I’ve had enough,’” says Joseph Coughlin, founder of the MIT AgeLab. “You’re showing people the door with no direction.”
And that lack of direction can have real psychological consequences. A 2020 meta-analysis found that 28% of retirees suffer from depression. When someone begins describing themselves primarily in the past tense—“I used to be a doctor,” “I was a manager”—their focus drifts from the present and future to what’s already behind them. It becomes harder to see what lies ahead when the language we use places us firmly in yesterday.
This loss of identity—of purpose—is often felt most acutely by men, who are more likely to have defined themselves almost exclusively through their careers and who may have fewer emotionally intimate relationships or outside interests to fall back on. But it’s not just a gendered issue. It’s a human one.
Retirement Is Not a Holiday—It’s a Transition
We prepare people extensively for entering the world of work. Careers advice, internships, skills training. But when it comes to *leaving* work, we tend to just throw people a cake and a card and wish them luck.
What would it look like to take retirement as seriously as we take promotion? To see it not as a permanent holiday, but as a major psychological transition—one that requires reflection, adjustment, and support?
In therapy, I often encourage people approaching retirement to think not only about *what they’re leaving*, but *what they’re moving toward*. Because humans are not designed to float indefinitely. We need a sense of direction. Purpose doesn’t have to mean productivity, but it does tend to mean meaning.
Some people find that through volunteering, mentoring, or finally writing that novel they’ve talked about for thirty years. Others rediscover creativity, join community groups, reconnect with old friends, or take on new roles within their family or local area. One client began giving walking tours of her city; another built a vegetable garden that now feeds half his street.
What matters isn’t the activity—it’s the intention.
Retiring Gradually (and Emotionally)
Where possible, a gradual transition seems to be best. Reducing hours, shifting into consultancy or advisory roles, mentoring younger colleagues—these can offer a ‘psychological tapering’ rather than a cold-turkey exit. It allows the nervous system time to recalibrate. The role of *worker* slowly makes room for other identities to emerge.
But just as importantly, we need to retire emotionally. That means acknowledging the losses that come with this life stage—of routine, status, relationships, identity—and allowing space to grieve them. It’s okay to miss work, even if you were ready to leave. It’s okay to feel ambivalent, unsettled, or even a bit bored. These are not signs that retirement was a mistake. They are signs that you are human.
And like every other life chapter we pass through, retirement needs to be seen for what it is: not a stop, but a stage. A moment of transformation. The beginning of a new role in the world, however quietly defined.
We tend to treat retirement like a footnote. But really, it deserves its own story arc.
Retirement and the Expat Identity
For those who have spent a significant portion of their working life abroad, retirement can carry an extra layer of complexity. Many expats form their identity not just around what they *do*, but where they *are*. Living overseas often means existing in a kind of in-between space—rooted and yet untethered. So when work ends, the question isn't just “Who am I without my job?” but “Where do I belong now?”
Some return to their country of origin only to find it unfamiliar; others stay in their host country but feel increasingly adrift without the social anchor of the workplace. This dislocation—geographic, social, emotional—can make the psychological impact of retirement even more acute. For expats, preparing for retirement means not only planning how to fill their days, but also re-examining where they feel most at home, and how to build new structures of belonging beyond the professional and the expatriate.
Micro-Retirement: A Generational Reframe
Interestingly, younger generations are starting to toy with that arc altogether. Instead of saving all their rest and freedom for one long chapter at the end, they’re experimenting with something called *micro-retirement*—a lifestyle model that involves taking frequent, shorter breaks throughout working life to travel, reflect, reset. Work three years, rest for one. Then repeat.
It’s not entirely new (it’s essentially a sabbatical with better branding), but it’s gaining traction as Gen Z begins questioning the logic of pushing joy to the margins of life. And there’s something wise in it. Why wait until your knees hurt to hike Machu Picchu? Why delay pleasure until your to-do list is permanently crossed off?
Of course, micro-retirement has its blind spots. It assumes good health, flexibility, and often financial privilege. And there’s a whiff of denial about the realities of ageing: getting sick, becoming less mobile, eventually needing care. But the broader point remains—there’s value in rejecting the binary of “work now, live later.” Retirement, whether taken in large chunks or scattered throughout life, is not about escape. It’s about intentional living.
The Cost of Comfort
Speaking of intention, it’s also worth acknowledging the financial side of this transition. In the UK, a recent report from the Pensions and Lifetime Savings Association suggested that a “comfortable” retirement now costs around £43,100 per year. While Norway doesn’t publish an equivalent official figure, estimates suggest that a comfortable lifestyle for a single retiree typically requires between 25,000 and 35,000 kroner per month—roughly NOK 300,000 to NOK 420,000 a year. For couples, this rises to around NOK 480,000 to NOK 600,000. That’s before factoring in unexpected healthcare costs, rising rent, or supporting adult children who haven’t quite left the nest.
State pensions in Norway average around NOK 300,500 per year before tax. For many, that won’t be enough. Planning for retirement isn’t just a financial act—it’s a psychological one. It means asking: *What do I want this chapter to look like?* And then building toward it with realism, creativity, and care.
The Last Chapter Isn’t the End
Ultimately, what one expects from retirement will differ from person to person, because we are, each of us, gloriously unique. Yet all of us must realise that we are on a journey—from the moment we are born until the day we die. The final stage in our lives deserves the same curiosity, intention, and attention as every other chapter.
It should be treated as an adventure: filled with discovery, joy, wonder, sorrow, meaning, connection, and—if we’re lucky—some rest.
How we navigate the tests of our later years—physically, emotionally, existentially—depends not only on our own resilience, but also on the quality of support we receive from the people around us, from our communities, and yes, from our governments too.
So instead of asking "When can I stop working?", perhaps the more transformative question is: "What am I retiring to? And who am I becoming next?"