Always Preparing: Life Lessons from Growing Up on a Dairy Farm and the Choices I'm Making Today.

I’ve spent most of my life preparing.

Preparing for the other shoe to drop. Preparing for questions I might not know the answer to.
Preparing not to be caught off guard, unready, or uncertain.

It started early. I grew up on a dairy farm, where worth was measured by output. Productivity was everything. There wasn’t room for feelings, only for how many gallons, how many acres, how many hours. In that world, being needed meant being useful—and being useful meant being ready. Always.

I knew I wanted a different life. I wanted to see the world, to explore beyond the fences and fields. So I became a doer. I got the grades. Joined the clubs. Practiced until I made the U.S. rowing team. I went to a top college and business school. I got hired by a Fortune 100 company and climbed the ladder. Even now, running my own successful consulting business, I still find myself living by that old farm clock—always one step ahead, anticipating, preparing.

But lately, I’ve noticed it’s not just professional anymore. I’m prepping life itself. I overthink birthday parties and family trips. I make lists for dinner conversations. I rehearse emotional responses like they’re part of a board presentation.

And then this summer happened.

After spending weeks traveling—off the grid, out of the office, out of my head—I had space to breathe. I saw how much I’d been carrying. How hard I’d been trying. And how much I’d been missing in the name of “readiness.”

So I tried something radical.

I asked myself, What would a retiree do?

This may not seem so groundbreaking—or even make much sense—to most people. But to me, it was a signal. A quiet inner bell telling me to slow down. To stop rushing toward the next task, the next achievement, the next neatly crossed-off to-do list. To realize I actually do have more time than I allow myself to feel.

Time to finish things around the house without stress.
Time to linger at the breakfast table just a little longer.
Time to take the longer route on my morning walk.
Time to really listen when my friends speak.

With technology and social media constantly tugging at our attention, I now picture my Elder Wiser self—untethered from the noise, following the beat of her own drum. And I am happy.

I’m learning to let go of over-preparing. Not because preparation is bad, but because presence is better. I’m practicing not having all the answers, not always performing. I’m showing up as I am—curious, human, and still learning.

If you find yourself always preparing, always bracing, maybe it’s time to ask:
What would a retiree do?

You might be surprised by how much peace is already within reach—and what beauty is waiting when you give yourself just a little more time.