Monuments or Moments

What is it about the ocean and the waves on the beach that speaks so clearly about the relentless march of time, and how our lives are little more than momentary footprints in the sand? We are here for only a moment, until the waves, arriving with the steady beat of a metronome, wash away our presence and return the sand to its natural state. As if we were never there at all. And yet, we were, if only for a moment.

The snow is piling up outside my window here in Central New York. Gray skies, cold wind, and sub-zero temperatures have already begun to blur the edges of my recent annual visit to Aruba. But one image refuses to fade.

Most mornings in Aruba begin the same way. A walk along the beach with my wife, my brother, and my sister-in-law. The same stretch of sand. The same waves rolling in, unbothered by our presence, unconcerned with our plans. It’s a gift, and one I treasure.

I’ve walked this beach for nearly ten years in a row now, soaking in time and conversation with the people I love. But lately, the ocean has been whispering something a little louder. Invading my thoughts not with sadness or fear, but with truth, and a not-so-quiet realization.

As I watch the waves and my rapidly vanishing footprints in the sand, I find myself asking a simple yet unsettling set of questions.

“Will I be remembered?”And perhaps more frightening, “Did I even matter?”

These questions rarely surface when you are deep in a career, raising a family, or exploring the world and your place in it. In my experience, they tend to appear later in life, often around retirement. It doesn’t take a walk on a beach in Aruba to come face-to-face with them, but they are a lot easier to sit with when there is sand under your feet and the sound of gentle waves hitting the shore.

It’s a theme I’ve been wrestling with in my upcoming book about retirement, but it came into sharper focus somewhere between the tide and quiet ruminations on the sand.

Here’s how I explore it in the manuscript:

I didn’t know it then, but that quiet lesson in humility would become a guiding light for my own retirement. Like most people, I spent decades working hard, trying to make an impact, to be remembered for something. Titles, achievements, and projects were the markers I once used to measure my contribution. But in retirement, I have come to realize that no one is building a monument for the work I did. The reports I wrote, the deals I closed, the strategies I developed are long gone, washed away by the next quarter’s results. And that’s okay.

The only footprints that matter to me now are the ones I leave in the sand of my circle, my wife, my sons, my friends, and the people I have had the privilege of mentoring along the way. Those are the places where my steps have meaning. The long talks on the deck or in a coaching session. The advice offered, sometimes taken, sometimes not. The shared laughter on a dock or a pickleball court. These are the small moments that tell me I contributed something that counts, even if only for a while.

For some, the realization that permanence is an illusion can trigger a wave of panic or sadness. But not for me. I have come to believe that being remembered someday pales in comparison to being needed right now.

What matters is how I treat the people I love, and those who need me, in the moment, not in the monument.

So I will continue to walk the beaches of my life for as long as I can. The waves will erase my footprints and outlast every marker I may have achieved in my career. They don’t care about resumes, titles, or timelines. But they do bear witness to connection, to the love of family and friends.

For a brief stretch of shoreline and time, I matter.

And that is enough.

Dan Troup is The Sunny Side of 57. He loves to reflect and write about life, family, career, and retirement. Check out more of his reflections on his blog site. Also, consider subscribing to The Sunny Side of 57. When not playing pickleball or hiking with Sue and Rigby, he aspires to write a new post at least once a month.