Reinventing Life: A Creative Journey After Retirement

Tag: politics

  • Coffee, Jazz, and Mexico

    What happened when one of my closest friends left the country for good—and why it shook me.

    It started, as it often did, with coffee and a few bars of jazz. Every Monday for six years, my friend and I met up—he on trumpet, me on piano. Two retired guys with stories and strong opinions, trading riffs on politics and Cole Porter in equal measure.


    Then one day, it stopped.

    Not the music, exactly—but the Mondays. The long conversations. The rhythm of familiarity. My friend and his wife had made a decision I never expected: they were leaving the country. For good.

    They packed their lives into a few bags, sold their house, gave away decades of belongings, and moved to Mexico. Permanently.


    They’re in their seventies. They had no job waiting for them, no children pulling them abroad, no midlife wanderlust. What they did have was fear—and clarity. The political direction of the U.S. under Trump’s second term was too much for them to endure. They didn’t want to live in a country where fear was replacing freedom, where the government punishes dissent, and where truth has become negotiable.

    My friend isn’t some wide-eyed radical. He’s a Juilliard-trained musician and a retired physician. A Kamala Harris supporter who knocked on doors, donated money, and believed fiercely in American democracy. But the erosion of that democracy—the daily normalization of cruelty, corruption, and authoritarianism—became too much.

    They chose exile.

    And honestly? I’m still stunned.

    I never imagined someone like him would leave. I never thought anyone in my circle would. I admire them deeply for their resolve. But their absence leaves a hole—musically, emotionally, politically. It marks the end of an era in my life.

    And it begs the question: What would it take for you to leave?

    Would it be censorship? Violence? The erosion of rights? What if it’s already happening?

    A recent article tried to name the fear so many of us feel. Senators too scared to speak up. Journalists fearing retaliation. Immigrants afraid of deportation. Students afraid of losing visas. LGBTQ+ people afraid of being erased. When fear becomes the default emotion in a democracy, it’s not just politics—it’s collapse.

    My friend felt it. And he acted.

    I haven’t left. Not yet. Maybe I’m too cautious. Maybe I’m still holding onto hope. Or maybe I’m just scared in a different way—scared of letting go of what this country should be.

    But something changed when they left. The silence after they were gone didn’t just echo in my living room. It echoed in my convictions.

    We’re not just living through a political moment. We’re living through a reckoning.

    And each of us will have to decide, sooner or later, what line we’re unwilling to see crossed—and what we’ll do when it is.

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  • Unplugging From Politics

    I remember it clearly—November 6, 2024, 2 a.m. I got up to pee and, like I often did, checked the news on my phone. It wasn’t looking good for Kamala Harris. A sinking feeling washed over me. It hadn’t been officially called yet, but I knew in my gut: she was going to lose. Trump would be back in the White House.

    By morning, the devastating news was confirmed. He had won.

    To say I was a news junkie would be an understatement. I had MSNBC on multiple times a day. I knew the lineup by heart. I could identify most of the regular guests by voice alone—even from the kitchen. But that morning, I refused to turn it on. I couldn’t bear it. Instead, I drank my coffee, ate breakfast, played the piano, and then—almost instinctively—I took my dog for a walk.

    That walk changed everything.

    I went to the ocean and walked along the beach with my dog, trying to make sense of it all. The raw beauty of the ocean was grounding, but my heart was heavy. And then, somewhere between the crashing waves and wet sand, I made a decision: I would stop watching the news. Cold turkey.

    It felt drastic. But it also felt like the healthiest thing I could do. I realized that my constant exposure to the political noise wasn’t helping—it was hurting. It was feeding my anger, my sadness, my sense of hopelessness. I needed to take back control of my mind, body, and spirit.

    While walking, I met a young mother on the beach. She was carrying her baby in a front harness and looked equally distraught. When I asked if she was okay, she confided in me that she, too, was devastated by the election results. Her husband had left for work early, before the final call, and she had no adult to talk to—just her baby and a silent, grief-filled home.

    She spoke through tears about how deeply she feared the impact of Trump’s presidency on her children. Her five-year-old son would be nine by the time this term ended. She couldn’t bear the idea of him growing up under a president who represented everything she stood against: lies, hatred, white supremacy, fraud, and division.

    That brief, honest conversation with a stranger confirmed what I already felt: we weren’t alone in our heartbreak—but we also didn’t have to stay there.

    When I got home, I canceled my cable subscription. It was a bold move, but I didn’t look back. I also stepped away from social media, engaging just once—to defend my sister when a Trump supporter posted an ugly comment. Otherwise, I disconnected.

    And something unexpected happened.

    And in the quiet that followed, something surprising began to stir.

    I created a new routine. I read every morning. I kept writing my book. I began doing yoga. I hiked more, listened to more music, went to concerts, visited friends, and even tackled a few long-neglected home projects. I felt lighter, clearer, more at peace.

    It turns out, unplugging from the chaos gave me space to reconnect with myself.

    I’ve attended one political march since then, and occasionally I’ll read a few news articles or watch a short clip online—but I don’t let it consume me. Like many of my friends, I’m learning to find a balance: staying informed without being overwhelmed.

    Someone once said to me, “Getting older is so hard.” A woman nearby responded, “Not everyone gets the chance.” That truth hit me hard. It reminded me to be grateful—to keep evolving, keep creating, and keep showing up for life, no matter what’s happening in Washington.

    Reinvention wasn’t just a choice. It was a survival skill. And I’m better for it.

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