I have been thinking more about the partner who became indignant when I suggested he might experience uncertainty in retirement. It isn’t what he had planned for his next stage that stays with me - time with his children, travel, charity work - but rather the weight he placed on it. My strong feeling was that he needed the plan to be enough. And perhaps that's the issue.

I ran a workshop recently on preparing for retirement from equity partnership. One of the participants, a partner close to retirement from the partnership, became indignant when I suggested he might experience uncertainty in the transition. As he explained, he had a plan. He knew exactly what he was going to do. His certainty was absolute. I found his certainty puzzling. Not because his plans weren't sensible. They were. But because having a plan for what you'll do is different from knowing how you'll experience the transition.

I read Enuma Okora's column in the FT this week (behind the FT Paywall). One paragraph stopped me:

"I have a friend who, whenever I ask how he's doing, takes a moment before answering. Often he'll then express two seemingly conflicting feelings. 'A part of me is feeling grounded and engaged but another part of me is also feeling anxious because I'm concerned about [xyz].' I've grown to admire his willingness to sit with multiple realities, and even to begin practising it myself."

That willingness to hold contradictions, to say "both things are true" without rushing to resolve them, is rare. We aren’t always comfortable with it. We would much prefer coherence.

Oliver Burkeman, writing in his newsletter The Imperfectionist, reaches back to a book title that stopped me: Rabbi Alan Lew's This Is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared. Burkeman's point, characteristically, is not to alarm. Uncertainty, he argues, is not a temporary inconvenience. It is our basic state of existence. We are never ready. Not really. And waiting until we are ready is, in the end, just another way of not beginning.