In the days that followed, it began to sink in that we could really retire early.

On February 25, 2024, I looked at the clown painting in our living room, the one I wrote about in a previous post, and suddenly understood its meaning. It was a sign. It was our retirement clown.

A day later, a post appeared in my WordPress feed titled “Let Go, It’s Over.” Another sign.

Alongside the clues I was receiving from the external world, I felt a steady joy in my heart at the thought that I could finally leave the corporate world behind. It felt strange, since we didn’t yet know the conditions or whether we would be accepted. But despite the uncertainty, I already felt drunk with joy, as if I were constantly dancing on clouds in euphoria.

With all the signs I had received so far, I already felt quite certain that this retirement thing would work out. So, I decided it was time to plan the celebration of the transition. On February 27, I went to the grocery store and bought a bottle of sparkling wine to keep until we were officially accepted into the retirement program so we could celebrate.

I also bought two soft tape measures, each 150 centimeters long, like a tailor’s tape. When the last 150 days of work began, my husband and I would cut off one centimeter of tape each day, watching it grow shorter and shorter. It was a custom that recruits in the Bundeswehr, the German armed forces, used to follow 150 days before their mandatory service ended—counting down the days to freedom.

It would be summer before we drank the sparkling wine and started cutting the tape measures, but I already felt like buying them in February, as if it was important to show my trust by doing something tangible.

When I came out of the store, I saw a car with the license plate F-IN. It reminded me of the French word la fin, “the end.” How fitting. It was as if life was whispering that it was safe to let go, to trust, and to look forward to the next chapter.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.

A couple of days after the nudge from the neighbor, I received an invitation from some workers’ union representatives for a call about the early retirement program. Normally, I wouldn’t have signed up, but after the recent nudge, I thought, Why not?

During the call, they presented an Excel spreadsheet based on the conditions of the previous early retirement program. We could download it, enter our personal data, and get a rough estimate of how long the severance pay might last and whether it would cover us until legal retirement age.

I was still somewhat disinterested. These were the conditions of the previous program, and nobody knew the details of the new one yet. Would it really be worth my time to tinker with a spreadsheet?

On February 21, 2024, two days after the presentation, I finally pushed myself to do it. With great reluctance, I downloaded the Excel and started filling in the blanks—start date, salary, degree of employment, accrued time account, vacation days, and whatnot. I felt an immense resistance to the task. I’m too busy, I told myself. I don’t have time to look up all these details. But I did it anyway.

When I finally entered everything and looked at the result, the spreadsheet showed that the severance pay would last until age sixty-one. That meant I’d only need to bridge a gap of about one and a half years before reaching the earliest legal retirement age of sixty-three.

Wow.

It knocked me off my feet. I hadn’t expected that. A sudden rush of joy filled me, as if someone had just told me I’d won the lottery.

Weeks later, I would realize that with a bit of tweaking, I could even get closer to full retirement age.

When my husband came home that day, I urged him to fill in the Excel, too. He was as reluctant as I had been—too busy with work, not in the mood for calculations—but he did it anyway. His numbers looked even better than mine since he is two years older.

“Look at that,” I said. “You could stop working now and still receive monthly pay. How does that feel?”

Immediately, he clapped his hands together and said, “Yes! Let’s do it.”

That same evening, the circuit breaker for our basement pantry tripped and had to be switched back on. It had never happened before. I couldn’t help thinking that our sudden emotional shift had somehow affected the electric current in the house.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.

After I didn’t catch the earlier hints—the inner voice that told me not to miss the opportunity and the dream with the white dove—it seems that guidance had to switch tactics.

At the beginning of February 2024, one after another of my family members came down with a nasty flu-like cold. We were all weak, miserable, and housebound. During this time, when we were taking out the trash, one of our neighbors who happened to work for the same company met us outside. She was full of excitement about the early retirement program. She said she had been waiting for this opportunity for a long time and would definitely take it. Then she urged us to make sure to consider it, too.

That was the second nudge through a colleague. My reaction was more skeptical: Really? We didn’t even have any official information yet about who would be eligible or how much the company would pay as severance. But she said there was a spreadsheet tool floating around somewhere that could be used to make a first estimate, based on the conditions from a previous early retirement program.

Alright then—a mysterious spreadsheet tool. Somewhere. But where? It certainly wasn’t anything official from HR.

Later, I wondered whether we all had to get so terribly sick just so we’d be home at the same time and run into our neighbor by chance. Maybe that was the only way the universe could make sure we’d get her emphatic nudge.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.

On February 2, 2024, just one day after the message about the important opportunity, I had the following dream: I found myself on a crowded bus, surrounded by luggage. I had to gather it all carefully, preparing to get off at the next stop. I was completely alone. No one could help me carry anything. I felt overwhelmed.

Under the seat, I noticed a small dove, white with a touch of pale gray. It was utterly still. I picked it up gently, cradling it in both hands around its wings. It didn’t flinch. Its calm gaze met mine.

I wondered why it wasn’t flying. Did it not have wings? Were they stuck? I couldn’t even tell where its belly ended and its wings began.

Then, slowly, it spread its wings. The feathers under its arms glowed lighter, almost pure white. The dove straightened and flapped, and I watched in slow motion as it lifted off. The bus roof seemed to vanish, replaced by open blue sky dotted with wisps of clouds. The dove shot upward, perfectly vertical, disappearing into the sunlight.

I woke with a sense of awe and clarity. The message was unmistakable. The dove’s flight felt like a mirror of my own journey: stepping into freedom, daring to move beyond old restrictions, releasing fears, and trusting that I could rise higher than I had imagined.

In retrospect, I realized that this dream was pointing to the early retirement program. At the time, of course, I had no idea what it meant.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.

On February 1, 2024, I woke up in the middle of the night with a cramp in my calf. I knew from experience that if I got up and went to the bathroom, the cramp would ease. Over time, I had come to see these cramps as my guides’ way of nudging me awake to deliver a message.

So, there I was at 3 a.m., sitting on the toilet, when I asked, What’s up?

This is a very important day. The most important day. Don’t miss the opportunity, the inner voice said.

I felt confused. The usual doubts crept in. Had I really heard this? Or was I making it up? But why would my mind tell me such a thing at 3 a.m. on the toilet?

And if it wasn’t my imagination, what on earth did it mean? Most important day? What opportunity?

I thought about what was ahead: a normal day at the office, a coffee meeting with a colleague, let’s call him Farhad, who had psychic gifts and healing abilities, and a dinner with a friend I only saw once a year. Then I went back to bed for a few more hours of sleep.

The next day, I paid close attention. What was the opportunity I must not miss?

First, there was the usual team meeting. I felt bored. The only thing that stood out was a sketch on the flipchart: a large rectangle with the letter “P” in the middle and nothing else. Whenever I see “P” in an unusual place, I take it as Prince waving hello.

Then my friend canceled our dinner because of the stomach flu. How sad that we wouldn’t meet this year.

Later, a colleague invited me to lunch. I declined, but I wondered afterward if I had made a mistake. Was that the opportunity I was supposed to seize?

That afternoon, I went to my coffee meeting with Farhad. As I stepped out of my office building, I got stuck in the revolving door. How odd. Usually, it worked fine. Coincidence or a message?

Over coffee, the first thing Farhad asked was whether I would accept the early retirement program the company had offered. A friend of his had already run the numbers and concluded it was enough money to leave.

“No,” I said. “There hasn’t been any email yet with a concrete offer.” I was confused. None of us knew the details of how much money would be paid or who would be eligible.

We moved on to spiritual topics: his healing sessions and classes, and my writing about feminism and my transgender son. Farhad asked if I would join one of his classes. But when he explained he would throw people out if they didn’t do the exercises he prescribed, I thought, No thanks. I’d be the first to go.

That evening at home, I wondered again: What was the opportunity I wasn’t supposed to miss? Lunch with colleagues? One of Farhad’s classes?

I asked my guides, Did I get it?

I swear I heard a sound, almost like a German “Nein.” Where did that come from? My husband was the only other person in the room.

Bummer.

I hoped my guides would find another way to get the message through.

In retrospect, it became clear: Farhad’s mention of his friend who had already calculated the early retirement package had been important. But I had dismissed it. Instead, I should have asked how the friend had made those calculations. That could have led to important insights.

Apparently, my guides would have to send someone else to deliver the message.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.

At the end of 2023, I was disengaged at work but still getting by, as I’ve described before. Then things shifted.

The return-to-office rules were tightened, and suddenly we were expected to come in three days per week. That was difficult because the new office space simply wasn’t designed for everyone to be there at the same time. The office would become crowded, and the noise level would go up noticeably.

Around the same time, rumors began to circulate about changes to the performance evaluation system. The word going around was that it might be something similar to “stack ranking,” where managers are pressured to label one person in the group as a low performer even if everyone is doing well. I had read about how such systems had backfired at other large companies, creating mistrust and competition. The idea that something like this might be introduced where I worked left me uneasy. Communication from leadership was minimal and vague, which only fueled speculation and worry.

On top of the structural changes, smaller frustrations piled up. Some teams were poor at communicating deadlines. Sometimes shifts were not communicated at all; once a deadline suddenly changed, and I was expected to deliver months earlier than planned. A colleague from another department ignored my emails for ages, and only when my boss intervened did he finally respond.

In early 2024, we had a mandatory workshop. It landed on what had always been my free afternoon. I was frustrated about losing that pocket of personal time, but my boss made it clear that attendance was expected. I went, but inside I was fuming. Situations like that left me feeling dismissed and powerless. They really pissed me off.

The more the workplace felt chaotic and frustrating, the more I found myself wishing I could leave.

And then, just as my disgust and annoyance peaked, the early retirement program was announced. At first I didn’t realize it might apply to me, but later I understood.

Looking back, I think there’s a pattern here. When life is steering us toward a particular fork in the road, the path we’re not meant to take becomes increasingly unbearable. It’s as if the universe pushes us away from one direction to make sure we embrace the other.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.

I was surfing Reddit one day, in the ex-Jehovah’s Witnesses forum. Why? Long story. Prince had recently shown up as one of my guides. (I wrote about it here.) Instead of being proud that such a powerful figure had appeared, I was scared. Prince had a reputation for pushing people hard, and after my past experiences with pushy guides, I wasn’t eager to go through that again.

Since I wasn’t very familiar with him, I started reading more about his life online. That’s when I discovered he had been a Jehovah’s Witness. Out of curiosity, I ended up on the ex-JW subreddit, where people share their stories of leaving what they describe as a high-control religion. What I read there shocked me.

That’s where I learned about the acronym PIMO: physically in, mentally out. People described what it was like to keep going through the motions—attending Kingdom Hall meetings, doing door-to-door service—while internally rejecting the whole belief system. They couldn’t talk about it, since speaking up would mean being shunned by everyone, even their family. The dissonance was unbearable.

It reminded me of what people in former East Germany described, or of what it can feel like to be gay or trans and unable to come out. You scream inwardly with disagreement, but on the outside you keep a lid on it, because speaking up would bring unbearable consequences.

And then it hit me: I could relate. That was how I felt at work. Inwardly gone. Inwardly screaming. But unable to voice it—because consequences.

To be clear, I’m not saying my workplace was like a cult. And I would never want to make light of the suffering of ex-JWs who are shunned by their families. What I’m trying to get across here is simply the feeling—that bottled-up inner scream, the sharp contrast between what is lived on the outside and what is true on the inside.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.

In early January 2024, I sat in a team meeting where the only topic was the company’s new policy: now that the coronavirus pandemic was officially over, we would all have to return to the office three days a week starting in the spring.

Everyone was concerned about how they would manage. How was I supposed to bike to the office that often when my knees were already struggling with rheumatoid arthritis? How would colleagues cope who lived much farther away—or had even moved farther away during the pandemic? The discussion went on, filled with worry.

In the middle of this, my inner voice of guidance spoke:
Trust. It will all be okay. You will be provided for. Have we ever left you wanting or in lack?

Shortly after, my guides sent me the number 2. I saw it printed on a bag. Then, when I checked my WordPress statistics, the numbers 2 2 2 appeared. For me, 2 always means have faith. Seeing it repeated was like confirmation that the channeling I heard was true.

I was deeply grateful for these signs, because so often I doubt myself and think I am just making things up.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.

On January 1, 2024, I took a walk around the fields and stopped to rest on a bench. The path was littered with the remnants of New Year’s Eve fireworks. Amid all the garbage were a few toys that had been packed inside the firecrackers. Suddenly, I noticed a little orange plastic frog. I picked it up. If you pressed its tail, it would jump.

Usually, I receive a message from spirit for the new year on January 1. Sometimes it comes in a dream, but it can also arrive as a sign.

Since no important dream had come that night, perhaps this frog was meant to be my sign for 2024. But what was its message?

Later, I interpreted it as jump. And because the frog was orange—a color that represents joy for me—the message became jump with joy. In retrospect, it felt like guidance to dare to take the leap into early retirement.

***

This post is part of a blog series about my transition into early retirement. You can find the table of contents, with links to each chapter, here.