“I’m Not Retiring, So Stop Asking”

How do you want to retire?

They think I should stop.

They see a few white hairs, maybe the way I stretch my back after standing too long, and suddenly I’m old. Done. Out of the game. Ready to be benched like a broken tool.

They don’t see me.
They see an idea of me.
An aged, outdated, useless version.

Retire? For what? So I can sit around waiting for the end? Count my pills, talk about my sugar level, and compare hospital bills over tea? That’s not living. That’s slow dying with a schedule.

I move. I work. I contribute. I solve problems. I think circles around people who still think white hair means decline. I show up when others don’t. I still build, fix, create.

But they’d rather push me into the background.
“You’ve done enough.”
“No need to push yourself now.”
“Take it easy.”

I’ve heard it all.

But my bones aren’t brittle, my mind isn’t soft, and I don’t need permission to keep going.

This society wants you to believe age is a warning label. The minute your skin folds or your step slows down, you’re boxed and shelved like expired goods. But I know better.

White hair isn’t weakness.
Wrinkles aren’t warnings.
They’re records of survival.

I’ve seen more storms than they’ve seen sunny days. I’ve worked through pain, through hunger, through loss — and I’m still standing. Still working. Still deciding when I’m done.

Not them.

So no — I’m not retiring.
Not because I’m afraid of stopping.
But because I’m not finished.

And when I am?

I’ll say it. Not you.