For RANJANI RAO, after decades defined by career, family, and responsibility, a quiet midlife recalibration reveals new ways to measure success and satisfaction.
Like many others, I was shocked by popular Bollywood singer Arijit Singh’s decision to step away from playback singing. Wasn’t he too young, and too successful, to retire at 38? Fans were heartbroken. Critics were confused. If he doesn’t sing, what will he do? As a fan, I will miss new songs recorded in his husky voice, but as a well-wisher, I understand and support his choice.
Unlike Arijit Singh, I’m not famous. Yet, like him, I have chosen to slowly step away from a decades long career as a pharmaceutical scientist. Unlike Arijit, who found the courage to walk away at the peak of his journey, I have waited a long time to change course. And unlike his sudden turn, I’m easing into it, moving to a part-time schedule as a prelude to retirement. His voice will be missed by millions; my small adjustment will not create even a blip.
Still, people ask questions. In an era when AI threatens jobs and layoffs are common, they wonder: “Why are you downshifting? What will you do when you retire?” My answer—“I want to measure my days differently now. Not by counting my salary and tracking promotions, fancy job titles or an expensive car, but by focusing on those things that can’t be easily measured or even explained”—doesn’t seem to appease those who endorse the tried and trusted path.
Even the most rebellious teenager eventually settles into a predictable life. We assume increasing responsibility towards the social order: first at school, then at work, and later within families that may include spouses and children. The details vary, but most of us learn to color within the lines. Life becomes orderly, routine, even monotonous—unless something interrupts the rhythm: health issues, family upheaval, or an unexpected epiphany. Conventional wis- dom favors stability and predictability, so stepping away from the script demands explanation, sometimes even permission. Yet the fundamental principle of nature is change.
Every Lunar New Year in Singapore, Chinatown is filled with decorations celebrating the Chinese Zodiac animal of the year. Seeing horses displayed across the city recently triggered a memory of similar installations from 2014, the year I arrived in Singapore with my daughter, a new spouse and his daughter, just before the Year of the Wood Horse. We were starting over in midlife, learning to live together as a blended family in a new country. Our days revolved around school schedules, parent-teacher meetings, and household logistics. And now, as the Fire Horse gallops in, both daughters have graduated from college, both have jobs, and one is married. All 12 animals of the Chinese Zodiac have paraded past us. Much has changed.
Time is easy to measure in days, weeks, and years. But how do we measure its meaning? Seasons follow a predictable cycle, yet people change. As a child, summer holidays felt endless. In early adulthood, I longed for a few free moments to catch my breath. For much of midlife, I felt like a commuter on a train speeding past station after station, wondering whether I was moving or whether the scenery outside was rushing by.
Work has been central to my identity, though my career path has never been linear. At 40, when I re- signed from a full-time job in India, I had no choice. As a single parent, I abandoned a demanding corporate job in favor of my young daughter’s safety after she returned from school. Switching to freelance work meant less pay. I knew what I was giving up. In a life once defined and overshadowed by work, I created a space in which I built a loving home, and a thriving business—a yoga and meditation practice. I made friends and established a support system. The gains far exceeded the loss of an assured salary.
Now, as I edge toward retirement after another decade of full-time work, I wonder what this slowing down will bring. I don’t have all the answers, but there are glimpses. On Tuesday mornings in Singapore, I video call my married daughter in California as she cooks dinner. I attend a weekday music class, join community crochet projects, host a monthly book club, schedule impromptu coffee dates, and occasionally plan short trips at short notice. I read constantly. I write more. But am I truly finished with my career? Do I still have more to offer?
What we do during our years on this planet becomes our body of work. Arijit Singh is an overachiever whose prolific output reflects extraordinary talent and discipline—qualities that do not disappear simply because someone chooses a different path. Recalibrating at certain points in life is necessary, yet such shifts are often seen as aberrations. The signals urging us to rethink our direction appear from time to time, but we hesitate because change can mean moving away from society’s familiar metrics of success: money, fame, power.
But if change is the natural order, perhaps the river of time eventually carries us to a bend where we hear a different tune or notice a different view, and where progress is measured in quieter ways. I feel I have reached that inflection point. Now I seek small moments of daily satisfaction: a bird lifting into flight, flowers swaying in the breeze, a pink sky at dusk, a child’s smile. Creating space in the daily grind has made this attentiveness possible.
I may be stepping away from a job, but I am not retiring from life. I am recalibrating. Realigning. Like Arijit, I too am chasing what lights me up—a book, a poem, a song. The possibilities are endless.
Ranjani Rao is the author of Rewriting My Happily Ever After: A Memoir of Divorce and Discovery and The Coherent Writer. She lives in Singapore.