Last summer, I stepped away from career coaching. At least, that’s what I told people.
I stopped taking on new clients. I closed down parts of my website. I began talking less about career development and more about ageing, meaning and later life.
On paper, it looked as though the transition had already happened.
But transitions are rarely as neat as we imagine.
For almost a year afterwards, I still held a licence to administer psychometric assessments. Personality questionnaires, career interest inventories, emotional intelligence tools, conflict instruments. Throughout my career, these assessments had been central to my work.
As a Chartered Psychologist, I had been trained to use many of the best-known instruments available. Over the years, I administered thousands of assessments and built a reputation around helping people make sense of what the results meant for their careers and lives.
It was simply part of who I was.
When I decided to step away from coaching, I still had a stock of assessments available through my account. At first, I thought very little about them. They sat there quietly in the background, a leftover from an earlier chapter.
Then, a month or so ago, I realised there was a substantial amount remaining.
Rather than let them go to waste, I offered them at a heavily discounted rate.
Gradually, they were used. Then there were two left. A few days ago, I used those final two myself.
And suddenly it was over.
Not my coaching career. That had already ended.
Not my professional identity. That was already evolving.
But a thread connecting me to that world had finally been cut.
What surprised me was not sadness. It was relief.
For decades, assessments had been part of my professional life. I enjoyed them. I valued them. They helped thousands of people make decisions about careers, education and retirement.
Yet when the last report was completed, my overwhelming feeling was not loss.
It was a sense of completion.
That made me wonder: what actually marks the end of a career?
Is it your final day at work?
The last client?
The farewell lunch?
The final payslip?
Or does it happen much later, through a series of smaller moments that nobody else notices?
- Perhaps it is when you stop renewing memberships.
- When the professional journals arrive and remain unread.
- When you no longer recognise the names of the industry’s newest thought leaders.
- When somebody asks for your opinion on the latest development and you realise you haven’t been paying attention.
Or perhaps it happens when you stop introducing yourself in a particular way.
For years, many of us answer the question “What do you do?” almost automatically. Teacher. Engineer. Nurse. Manager. Consultant. Coach.
The role becomes part of our identity. Then one day it isn’t.
Not because we’ve forgotten how to do the work, but because it no longer sits at the centre of who we are.
Retirement literature often focuses on the beginning of the transition. The decision to leave. The final day. The first months of freedom.
Less attention is paid to what comes afterwards.
The slow unwinding.
The gradual release of habits, responsibilities and identities that have been with us for decades.
The quiet moments when we realise we have stopped being one thing, even though we haven’t quite become the next thing yet.
I think that is where many people find themselves.
Not at the start. Not at the finish. But somewhere in the middle.
For me, it turns out the end wasn’t marked by my last coaching client. It wasn’t marked by closing pages on my website. It wasn’t even marked by deciding to step away.
It was marked by two remaining psychometric assessments.
A tiny administrative detail. And yet somehow, it felt significant.
A chapter closed.
Not with regret.
Not with fanfare.
Just with a quiet acknowledgement that it was time.
Which leaves me wondering what other endings are still unfolding unnoticed in our lives. And whether, sometimes, we only recognise them after they have already happened.
