My mom has always been the most selfless person I know. For as long as I can remember, she worked tirelessly—taking on extra shifts, skipping vacations, and putting off her own dreams—just so my brother and I could have a better life. She never complained. Not once. Birthdays, school plays, scraped knees, broken hearts—she was always there, even when it meant sacrificing sleep, comfort, or joy.
So when she announced, at 67, that she was retiring—not because of illness, not because of any obligation, but simply by choice—I was stunned.
“I just want to live for myself now,” she said, her voice steady but peaceful.
At first, I didn’t know how to react. I was happy for her, of course, but another part of me struggled with the news. Life feels so overwhelming these days—with a toddler running around the house, bills piling up, a mortgage that never seems to shrink, and the general pressure of just trying to keep up. Quietly, almost guiltily, I wished she’d stay involved, maybe help out more often, be the support I’d always counted on. Wasn’t that what parents did? Keep giving? Keep sacrificing?
And then she sent me a message—a simple but powerful reminder. She told us she had already given her entire life to others. She had worked through holidays while everyone else celebrated. She raised us completely on her own after Dad left. She put aside her dreams, ignored her own needs, and always made sure we came first, even when it cost her everything.
Now, as she nears 70, she wants something different. She wants to live on her own terms. She wants to paint again—something she used to love before she had to trade art supplies for grocery bills. She wants to travel, to see places she only read about in books. She wants to rest without guilt. To slow down and actually enjoy the mornings, the sunshine, the quiet moments she never had time for.
She isn’t abandoning us. She isn’t walking away from love. She’s simply choosing herself—for once in her life.
And the more I sat with that, the more I realized—she was right.
If I can’t honor her decision now, what kind of message am I sending to my own child? That love is only valuable when it drains you? That freedom, rest, and joy must be postponed until it’s almost too late? That a life well-lived means constantly putting yourself last?
Her retirement isn’t an act of selfishness. It’s an act of power. Of healing. Of finally reclaiming what was always hers but never within reach. And in doing so, she’s teaching us—me, my brother, even my child—that choosing yourself isn’t a betrayal. It’s a birthright.
So here’s to my mom—not just for the countless things she gave us when we needed her most, but for finally giving something back to herself.
Here’s to her joy. She’s earned every second of it.