A friend recently sent me a message. After more than a decade of mergers and acquisitions at the largest investment bank in the United States, he finally quit. The attached screenshot reads as “Legendary Pacific Sailing” and promotes the itinerary of three superyachts. He was trying to put together a group for the trip. Now I have never sailed, I don’t know if I enjoy it, but I am very seduced.
When I retired from the 55-year-old investment bank three years ago, I felt like I was hitting the brakes of a race car. While the world was crying out in the past, I suddenly realized I was standing still. For decades, my life was determined by financial shattering. Continuous topics of Blackberry, consecutive meetings, conference calls, PowerPoint decks, pitched battles for contract delegation, and of course, the relentless flood of email.
Then it all disappeared. My in-tolerance torrent has turned into trickle. My phone was silent. I wasn’t in the game anymore. I wasn’t even a bystander.
I was disorientated at the beginning of my retirement. I spent my entire career heading into this moment. Finally, I controlled my financial independence, autonomy and my time. But when it arrived I had no idea what to do with it. In theory, I can do anything. As the Pistol said in Windsor’s cheerful wife, “Oysters in the Mines of the World.” But it turned out to be more difficult than I thought to praise it.
Sleep was new. Making coffee in my pyjamas felt like a small rebellion. The gym was filled for 1-2 hours. But what if that is? More coffee? Lunch alone? Podcasts perhaps? My friends were still caught up in the pain of their careers and didn’t have time for the midday tournament. When we caught up, they inevitably asked, “What is your next gig?” Headhunter called out to see if I was interested in getting senior positions at more niche financial institutions. A long lost colleague wanted me to invest in his startup. Another asked if I could help raise capital for his company. None of them resonated.
My life up to retirement continued on a strictly planned trajectory. Top schools, honorable companies, well connected mentors, well-known deals. Success came in neatly packaged increments with promotions, pay bumps and grander’s job titles. Of course there was a retreat and I could have climbed higher. My brother certainly has. One is a bestselling novelist, whose books have produced more than dozens of film and television adaptations, and the other is the CEO and chairman of the Fortune 500 company. But I did well enough.
Investment banks once provided an unparalleled adrenaline rush. The victory was fierce and deeply rewarding. At my peak, I stepped onto every pitch I was convinced I could clinch it and help turn a brutal competitive battle into victory. It was almost a hopeful idea, but I believed it. Often, we won massive victories. Supported by the highs, I directly charged to the next challenge and started for more. That was the power of real passion – the kind that makes you feel unstoppable to perform.
I lived for a deal, which is the intensity of the all-night exercise before a massive announcement that acts like a drug. By the morning, I’ll be glued to the Bloomberg terminal and stuck to the heart pounding while I wait for the news to break. But over time the thrills have become dull. The identity of it all exhausted me. The arrival of the “request for proposal” stimulated more fatigue than the ennui than the energy and more fatigue than the fire. My former crime presentation began to fray on the edges. Like a priest who has lost faith, I have found myself reciting the liturgy from habits, not from certainty.
At one moment, this disillusionment crystallized. I was in Italy and was looking for a big mission. We prepared a comprehensive presentation, but the moment we started, the senior client executives became obviously bored and cut us off. “You’re the 10th bank you’ll pass through,” he said. A few minutes later, in the middle of the pitch, his phone rang. He answered and had a long conversation while we sat there like the quiet props of the movie.
At that moment, I had the urge to kick back, lift my legs up to the meeting room table, and let out a long sigh. But of course, I didn’t. I quietly accepted the humiliation, and part of my profession’s self passed away that day. It wasn’t that I attacked. The client was not rude for that reason. He simply reminded us that despite our shiny slides and expensive wardrobes, we are another set of salespeople. And he made his choice.
Therefore, retirement was not just an escape. It was the natural end of a declined passion. At 58 years old, you can’t ignore the tic watch. My parents passed away young. My father is a 63-year-old mother with a sudden heart attack 59 after a long battle with breast cancer. They both worked hard, believed in hard work and looked forward to being paid for retirement. Their early deaths still loom in my mind. This reminds us that time is both the greatest asset and the most pathetic constraint.
I’m healthy, but I don’t know how many runways I’ve left behind. My answer may have skewed the results, but the online life expectancy calculator says I should live another 34 years. Four units of alcohol per week? close enough. So the question remains, what do I do in those years? On his 2015 song “The Nights,” The Late, Great DJ Avicii, recalls his father’s advice. “Live the life you remember.” That’s not a bad mantra, right?
I’m the first to stand up to adventure whenever I can. It started with a friend’s phone – an invitation to Solomun’s gig at Printworks in London. I wondered what the heck it was. I might go for that too. Pulse beat, hypnotic light. I loved it. At least the first five hours. Unlike everyone else around me, I wasn’t taking anything to keep me moving, so in the end my energy crashed.
Investment banks once provided an unparalleled adrenaline rush. I lived for deal making
Then I came across an article about the Faroe Islands. I had barely heard about the location, but the ambiguity made it even more interesting. Within minutes, we booked our flights and hotels. After twisting my arm, I had my peers tagged me. It mostly rained on the sides, but as the clouds cleared, the scenery almost seemed surreal, as if you were walking into another world. And Tórshavn, a small capital, turns out to be full of pleasant surprises. Not bad for a quick trip.
The taste of that first adventure sparked my appetite. Since then I have trekked high-altitude trails in Peru and Ethiopia. Snowsh was heard at Slovakia’s High Tatra, camped under the stars in the Sinai Desert, and Kitesurf was blown away by the winds of Essauila. I swam with dolphins from Zanzibar, manta from Bali, and sea turtles from the Galapagos. I dared my daughter try pole dancing at Girona and did an e-mail dance in Ubud with my own initiative. I hiked the West Highland Way, scaled Snowdon and Bennevis, and cycled around Mallorca, zip-lined in the canyons of Ecuador.
The modern world offers an overwhelming experience buffet. Challenges are choosing rather than finding adventures. I haven’t slowed down yet, but the wear and tears are real. Surf camps in Lombok were explosive. My shoulders started to hurt from paddling, and my legs were getting finer by the coral reef.
That could also make you lonely. Loneliness is a tax on carefree independence. My wife is supportive, but she has her own project and when it started snowing last year while camping in the 4,000m in Kyrgyzstan, she was a good sport, but she doesn’t necessarily go around the globe anytime soon. Most working friends can manage short escapes, but they cannot extend expeditions to faraway locations. My kids are working or at school and have their own lives.
This is a paradox of life after banking. In theory, you can get everything, but the persistent anxiety remains. The more freedom you have, the more you will notice what you may lack. No matter how much you are, “What else is there?” Another mountain to climb, another thrill to chase, another skill to master, another person you will meet.
Recently I’ve been juggling the “pursuit” mix. I am a nonprofit trustee, an occasional expert witness, a freelance financial critic, Jimratt and a global Frannour. These activities really interest me. But sometimes two contradictory ideas creep up. Should I do something more? Maybe advise the company or sit on a corporate committee? And on the contrary, wouldn’t these roles replace my current 30-year career, rather than the crude proxies of professional identity that I drifted out?
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One of the toughest challenges in investment banking is mastering the art of focus. The temptation to chase every opportunity is a trap you must avoid. In the workplace, senior management intervene to provide some structure. Bankers are instructed to create a target list and rank clients and projects based on revenue potential, transaction likelihood, and probability of success. The reason is simple. The cost of the wrong time is sudden. Some clients emit expertise without offering returns. The trick is to know which clients are worth your energy and avoid time sinking.
Until I retired, I understood the impact of this. Freedom is not about doing everything, it is about choosing what is most important. You need to unleash the habit of equating busyness with productivity. I want to not only carve my bucket list, but I also want to invest in things that are important.
The highlight of my post-bank life was not the exotic escape or the thrill of seeing my signature in the newspaper. Last year, I came in a Fulham FC away match against local rival Chelsea. Fulham, a modest club I’ve supported since moving to the UK in the 1990s, overturned a 1-0 deficit with two late goals, securing his first victory at Stamford Bridge in 45 years. The winner of Rodrigo Muniz’s suspension time sent us into an unrestrained, unlimited frenzy of joy that made us ec.
We stayed all the way after the last mouth whi, singing and celebrating, and at that moment we got lost. I have never hugged so many strangers in my life. At that moment, there was no other place where I was rather.
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