Transitioning to ‘emeritus professor’ wasn’t always easy. Here’s how I adjusted

From ScienceMag:

After more than 40 years in academia, I felt optimistic about the path ahead when I retired in 2012. I intended to continue working, focusing on research and writing now that I no longer had administrative and teaching responsibilities. But as I downsized my office and changed my email signature to Emeritus Professor, I was unprepared for the reality of retirement. I found it difficult to adjust to no longer holding decision-making roles. Colleagues were less likely to seek my opinions than before, which ate at my sense of self-worth and left me feeling that my ideas were no longer valued. Regaining my equilibrium and appreciating the positive aspects of retirement took months.

I had leadership roles throughout my career. After spending 27 years at a U.S. university, I pivoted to working as the deputy director of a natural history museum for 2 years followed by 15 years as a faculty member at a European university. In these positions, I had a range of decision-making responsibilities—departmental chair, botanical garden director, journal editor, secretary-general for an international scientific organization.

As I reached 68, I was ready to let those roles go. After so many cycles of dealing with administrative hurdles and other challenges, I had lost some of my drive. It seemed appropriate for more junior faculty to step into those shoes. But I hadn’t fully processed what that might mean for me.

I was excited to have workdays free of the meetings and classes that broke up my days as a professor. I expected to have more time to finish manuscripts, start collaborative projects, and dive into book writing. That turned out to be true. But it was hard to ignore that meetings were being scheduled to which I was not invited. I was no longer an essential cog in the system.

As time wore on, I also had a nagging sense of being left behind scientifically, standing beside the track after the train had left the station. I continued to attend national and international conferences, but fewer than before. I didn’t always hear about new developments, and I drifted away from old friends from other universities.

On my own campus, where I had a small office, the lack of daily chats in the laboratory with students and colleagues and discussions in the classroom left me feeling isolated. Retirement is a haven for the solitary worker, and working alone has never been a problem for me. But I did find that when bad news struck—such as learning that a paper had been rejected—I had no class later that day where a successful lecture could recharge my self-confidence.

Slowly, though, I began to ease into my new rhythm. Structure helped. I gave myself deadlines for completing manuscripts, and I set a schedule to get to the office by 10 a.m. each morning, which stimulated me to get out of bed and keep going. I also learned to see my isolation as a privilege rather than a penalty. In addition to being able to complete shorter manuscripts, I could focus on larger projects, such as review papers and books, which have proved very satisfying. Although retirement means I have lost influence with university decision-making, having the time to step back and take a broad, synthetic view of my field more than makes up for it.

For me, success in retirement has involved mapping out a realistic plan that is both enjoyable and academically fulfilling. When I do attend a conference, I go with reduced expectations—not to capture all the newest advances, but to learn about broad new trends and catch up with as many old friends as possible. The good news is that I am no longer being constantly evaluated by others—I am only being evaluated by myself. I have learned to keep pushing forward, at a more relaxed pace, and working with, rather than fighting against, these new challenges.

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