Embracing Life Before Retirement: A Personal Journey

When I told Sarah I was thinking of titling this post Embracing Life Before Retirement, I could practically hear the pearl-clutching. Let me say right here at the start: I’m not counting down the days to stop working. I’m not slacking off. I don’t have too much time on my hands. In fact, I’m working hard — joyfully so. This isn’t about stepping back; it’s about growing into myself. At my age, the question of who am I becoming? carries a certain urgency.

Sarah, who can always “find me something to do,” sent me a link to the Spartanburg Community Band. I dusted off my French horn, loaded it into the Mini, and showed up. I played as softly as I could, listening to my neighbor for the pitch while I re-learned fingerings and remembered how to breathe as I buzzed the mouthpiece. Not long after, I joined the choir at the neighborhood Trinity United Methodist Church. Which, of course, meant I was also drafted into the handbell choir. (It’s funny how the choir members who double as bell-ringers, plus the music director, all grinned and said, “Well, handbells on Monday, choir on Wednesday!”) So, I guess I’m in handbells now too.

And then came the start of the new semester. I walked into the cafeteria for the back-to-school breakfast the university provides. I sat with colleagues, caught up on life, and we laughed together as we talked about classes we’re teaching. There was such positive energy around our table! Later, I listened to our chancellor give the State of the University address — which, by the way, is good. Then the deans introduced new faculty.

I took a moment to reflect on the dean who had taken my place. She is kind and thoughtful, already working to build community in our college. I felt warmth and satisfaction, a kind of peace. Like sitting on the porch listening to cicadas at dusk, when the heat of the day has finally lifted. She has a quiet confidence, the kind that signals she knows what she’s doing. That she’s got this. The kind of confidence I now have too — as faculty.

As if the universe were reaffirming that I am in the right role — that I am where I’m supposed to be — two invitations arrived that same day. One colleague invited me to do a book talk with their curriculum theory class, reconnecting me with scholarship and teaching I had missed during my years in administration. Another asked me to consider contributing a chapter to an upcoming Handbook of Ignorance Studies in Education. Now, I know that ignorance studies is a highly serious matter, but me being me, I can’t help chuckling at the title. It feels like the perfect opportunity to bring a little folksy charm and sense of irony to the subject. Both invitations humbled and inspired me. Coming just one day before the semester began, they reinforced my professional identity as teacher, scholar, and service colleague (and yes, committee assignments also arrived that day).

So what do I mean when I say embracing life before retirement? When I imagine retirement, I hear the people who, whenever asked “How’s retirement?” say, “I don’t know how I ever got everything done when I worked. There just aren’t enough hours in the day!” Almost everybody says that when asked. Retirement, for many, is a season of busy leisure, where the biggest problem is deciding what leisure looks like. If you want to take a nap, you can take a nap. If you want to read, you can read. Because nothing is pressing you to be somewhere else.

And yet, I’m tasting a version of that right now — a freedom to choose what matters most, even while working. Music. Teaching. Writing. E-triking. Monthly Breakfast Club with Sarah and a couple of colleague friends. Nourishment for mind, body, and spirit. Life still has its hiccups and valleys — I’m not pretending otherwise. I know they are sometimes filled with loss and grief, unfulfilled dreams, guilt, and yes, fear. And when those valleys come, I still get low and afraid, just as I always have. Sarah is right: I need ways to pull myself out of them. And honestly? An e-trike ride with my French horn slung over my shoulder feels just about right.

Even when I was younger, I used to (half) joke: I’ll never be able to retire — they’ll have to roll me out of school in my coffin. Now that I’m within six to eight years of retirement, that gnawing fear still tugs at me. I’m close. A decade ago, when I entered administration, I even set a countdown timer app on my phone. That should have been the clue right there that I wasn’t where I needed to be. I don’t look at that timer anymore.

The difference now is that I think about the last days, and the blessings God has knocked me over the head with. Yes, there will still be valleys — loss and grief, unfulfilled dreams, guilt, and fear. But alongside them, there is also laughter, music, students, writing, dogs, cats, and Sarah. And I realize that if this is my life for another decade while I work — teaching, music, writing, laughter, valleys and all — not only will I “make it” to retirement, I can embrace the mindset now.

Almost like retirement. But better.

Image of Ugena Whitlock and bulldog. — Who is that old person being lovingly gazed at by Bruno the bulldog?

My New Journal Article IS Published!

I’m honored to share that my new article, A Field in Flux: Notes from an Administrative Escapee, has been published in the Journal of the American Association for the Advancement of Curriculum Studies (JAAACS). While its title suggests a personal confessional, the piece ultimately offers a broader reflection on the evolving and embattled state of Curriculum Studies/Theory—shaped as much by political and ideological pressures as by institutional shifts in teacher education. Drawing on recent scholarship and personal experience, I explore what it means to “come back to theory” in a moment when the field itself feels fragmented yet urgently needed.

You can read the full article here: A Field in Flux: Notes from an Administrative Escapee – JAAACS, 2025.

FieldInFlux_JAAACS_2025 Download

So This Is 61: Notes on Aging From the Inside Out

Image of snowy tree, Littleville, Alabama.

So This Is 61: Notes on Aging From the Inside Out

I didn’t expect to notice it all at once. Nobody tells you that one day, getting out of a chair will require a full mental and physical commitment. Or that you’ll avoid driving at night because headlights are now earthly starbursts. Or that the first time you wake up with a stiff neck, you’ll briefly wonder if you also have a brain tumor, because the sharp pain shoots all the way up into your temple. Of course, it’s just how you slept, but the thought still crosses your mind. My neck now cracks so hard I sometimes wonder if others can hear it. This is all new.

These are notes from those realizations—honest reflections of what 61 feels like, from the outside in and the inside out.

Oh. And who IS that old woman staring back at me in the mirror?

Aging is full of these little surprises—some unsettling, some mildly amusing, and some that require a good stretch, a heating pad, and a moment of reflection. I am learning, slowly, to embrace it all. I’m slowing down, but not shutting down. Sixty is NOT the new 90, as Sarah likes to suggest to me. If anything, I’m rediscovering the joys of having time to potz around the house, sort through old pictures, take the dogs for walks, and drive my Miata around Spartanburg like it’s my own personal victory lap.

I have less—less urgency, less need to accumulate things—but I also have more. More awareness, more gratitude, more quiet moments of contentment. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still upgrade to the latest iPhone every couple of years and buy accessories for the Miata and Mini Clubman, but there’s nothing I can think of that I truly need. That’s an unsettling realization, not because it signals loss, but because it signals a kind of peace. I’ve been asked whether this feeling means I’m depressed. I don’t think so. If anything, it feels like clarity, like a settling in—like I’m moving toward a place where I don’t have to chase after the next thing. I haven’t arrived there yet, but I can tell a difference.

Image of people singing in church, Littleville, Alabama. — Blurry picture I snuck while Daddy is leading a song at church on Singing Night.

Aging isn’t just about collecting years; it’s about collecting perspective. There is wisdom in learning what to hold onto and what to let go of and in understanding that urgency is often self-imposed. It is true that contentment is “not about having what you want but wanting what you have”–that is, it’s in perspective. I remember when I was about 9 years old, I stood by eavesdropping, as children do, when Mother and Daddy were visiting with the preacher after Sunday night church. I don’t know how the conversation turned toward me–probably because I tried to join in the adult’s conversation. But I still recall Daddy telling the preacher, “Ugena can’t be content.” Even then, I wanted the next thing, to go to the next place–I just plain wanted. I realize now it’s a quality that must be cultivated. I am working on it.

I’ve learned that not every battle is worth fighting–not every hill is one to die on. Very few are. And against a life of doing otherwise, I’ve come to understand that silence can be more powerful than a quick, clever retort (which, I admit, is a talent of mine). Although Sarah probably say it’s taking too long, I’m also learning to take myself less seriously–to laugh at myself when I can.

And yet, aging isn’t just about accumulating (waiting patiently for?) wisdom—it’s also about watching my body become a stranger to me. The aches, the slower reflexes, the shifting body shape that seems to have a mind of its own. And let’s not even talk about hair loss and the horrifying reality of what gravity does to internal organs. I wonder if everybody, like me, sees someone and thinks “old person,” only to discover that she or he is younger than I am. I die a little on the inside when that happens, and it does regularly.

I’ve inherited certain characteristics from my father—beyond just looking more and more like a little old man every day. If I’m not careful, I can be short-tempered and convinced my way is obviously best. I don’t always filter my thoughts the way I should—not snapping, exactly, but sometimes speaking too bluntly, unaware in the moment of how my words might land. And yet, also like him, I’ve also mellowed. I am more nostalgic, more sentimental, more conscious of time slipping through my fingers like sand. I find joy in familiar places, in the sound of a bird’s song. I think I am figuring out the face in the mirror. It’s starting to look like me. The trick is learning to love the aging face.

When I married at 18, I could imagine “50 years from now.” Now, I understand, in a way I didn’t before, that the time ahead is finite. There’s an end of the road. My parents, whose mortality would have been unimaginable to me 20 years ago, are fading—fragile, frail. My father still has a prolific memory of a shirt he was wearing when he was talking to a particular person at a specific place in 1957 while a specific song played on the radio, but he struggles to remember which channel is which on the TV. My mother, who was heavy-set all my life, is growing thin. It’s probably healthier, but it’s startling to me. Even the house, now 50 years old, is a little less kempt, as houses tend to become when the priority is simply to live in them rather than maintain them. These things are bittersweet to see.

There’s a void where the future used to be. I can’t plan for 50 years down the road anymore. Twenty years, maybe. Ten, certainly (no, not certainly, more…hope-fully). But the open-ended future that once stretched ahead indefinitely has become something else entirely. Maybe the saddest thought—and why do I allow my ruminations to go here—is that one day, not too far into the future, the last people on earth who call me by the nickname that Daddy pronounced upon me when I was born, will be gone. He and Mother call me Miss Bean. I’ll never hear it spoken naturally to me again. This is, by the way, a very Daddy way of thinking, and I have to stop it. It’s dangerous, depressing, and yet, sometimes, it sneaks in anyway.

Image of old folks in winter, Littleville, Alabama. — The Whitlocks outside the house to show the snow. Not used with permission, but I’ll take my chances.

And yet, there is joy to be found in all of this. There is humor. There is, finally and blessedly, contentment. There is the deep love I have for my family–and a conviction to see every minute they are in the world as a gift. Time doesn’t march on–that heifer tears out like her tail is on fire. Aging isn’t a slow march toward irrelevance—it’s a shift in focus, a new way of seeing. I am still learning, still growing, still moving—albeit with a few more creaks and groans along the way. And in the meantime, I’ll keep driving my Miata and cracking my neck like like a walnut. I’ll keep striving toward the Big Three attributes of sanity: gratitude, contentment, and humor as I remind myself that I’m still here. And I’m still going.

Remembering the Teachers Who Inspired Me, Part 2

What I Learned From My Teachers

From Part 1: There’s a lot we carry from our school days—the lessons that stick, the ones that shape us in ways we only realize years later. I’ve been thinking about the teachers who left a deep impression on me, and how those early experiences continue to resonate as a quiet, steady presence in my life and work today. This piece (Parts 1 & 2) is dedicated to the teachers who shaped me, and I want to honor them by name.

Classrooms in Littleville Elementary & Junior High School — Classrooms in front of Littleville School shortly after its closure

Part 2: Miss Thorne, 7th Grade Math: A Lesson in Apology
Miss Janice Thorne, who became Mrs. Berry during our 7th-grade year, is the only teacher I ever apologized to as an adult. My behavior in her class was atrocious. I vividly remember entertaining my classmates by hiding in the classroom while she searched the campus for me—the day the principal, Mr. Morgan, called my dad. Not my mom. Dad. I don’t remember acting out much after that. Like Mrs. Wells, Miss Thorne had the unfortunate task of competing with Miss Renwick for my attention, but unlike Mrs. Wells, she wasn’t a natural commander. I’m really sorry, Miss Thorne.

Miss Thorne also had the misfortune of being assigned to teach us P.E., which required her to wear gym shorts, crew socks, and SeaVees gym shoes. For some reason, this embarrassed me, though I couldn’t have explained why. She was also a member of a neighboring congregation, so I saw her off and on through the years. That made my apology all the more meaningful when I finally had the courage to offer it.

Probably unsurprisingly, Janice left teaching the year after I had her as a teacher. I have reflected on whether my behavior might have contributed to her decision, and my small consolation is that she likely made a good deal of money by going to work for TVA. Miss Thorne—Mrs. Berry—died in 2023, and I am so glad I had the chance to show her respect as an adult.

Mr. Morgan, Principal and 7th Grade Social Studies: The Importance of Being Remembered
Mr. Morgan was the principal of Littleville School and also taught us 7th grade social studies. He was tall, having played basketball in his younger years, and he coached our teams with the same towering presence. His other claim to fame was that he had fought in the Korean War alongside Dan Blocker, who played Hoss in the very popular Bonanza TV show. I was glad to learn that Mr. Blocker was a nice person. Mr. Morgan regaled us with stories like these during social studies—and come to think of it, the Korean War was part of the curriculum. Mr. Morgan had the longest face I’d ever seen–one can’t help but recall Lurch from The Addams Family–and he spoke with a distinct impediment. We students discussed it and surmised that his tongue was attached to the bottom of his mouth—at least, that’s what it sounded like when he talked. But we quickly learned to understand him, and his speech became just another part of who he was.

Littleville School Gymnasium — Run-down gym of Littleville School, a shell of its former self.

Every year I attended Littleville, I earned a paddling from Mr. Morgan. Unlike Mrs. Fowler’s little red-painted ping pong paddle that intimidated second graders, Mr. Morgan’s paddle was a serious piece of wood—it must have been two feet long and was covered in signatures from its many recipients over the years.

In the early 1990s, Littleville School was closed due to low enrollment. The town had suffered during the recessions of the 1970s, and eventually, the numbers just weren’t there to keep the school open. Before the doors closed for the last time, a “homecoming” was held for everyone who had ever attended. That included my parents, my brother, neighbors—even my grandparents. I was a grown young woman by then. My parents were reminiscing with Mr. Morgan, who chose to retire rather than move to another school. He looked at me and said, “I remember when I gave you a paddling one time, Ugena. I had to hold back a laugh when you looked up at me and said, ‘Mr. Morgan, this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.'”

Littleville School "Hornets" Basketball Team, 1974. Center: Mr. Theron Morgan. — Littleville School “Hornets” Basketball Team, 1974. Center: Mr. Theron Morgan.

A 20-year career, and he remembered a joke from a 10-year-old girl. Because I was funny and smart. I had been memorable. That, I think, is my main lesson—that these people thought enough of me to remember me.

Mrs. Mansell, 9th Grade Algebra: Making Math Make Sense
In 8th grade, I transferred from Littleville to Russellville to join the RHS Marching 100 Band. My parents really sacrificed to make this happen, commuting me to school a half-hour away instead of the five-minute trip to Littleville. Almost every teacher I’ve mentioned so far had told my parents that I needed enrichment to keep me busy—that my acting out was because I was smart. That made an impact, so I went to Russellville instead of following my Littleville classmates to the county school. I have often wondered how different my life would have been if I had taken the natural path instead of forging the one I did. Two roads diverged…

The RHS Torch and Tradition, a legacy of E.L. "Prof" Williams — The RHS Torch and Tradition, a legacy of E.L. “Prof” Williams

At Russellville, Mrs. Mansell stood out. She had real presence. She taught 9th grade Algebra and made math understandable in a way it hadn’t been since Mrs. Wells. Her father, E.L. “Prof” Williams, had been principal at Russellville High from 1937 to 1957, and my dad even remembered “Mickey” Mansell helping him register as a new student his ninth grade year. She connected with us, made herself available, and showed patience beyond measure. I remember being at a slumber party before exams, and a group of us girls called her for help. She patiently tutored us over the phone, and we all did well on exam day.

Faculty from 1982 Russellville High School Tiger Tracks Yearbook — Faculty from the RHS Tiger Tracks Yearbook; Mrs. Gretchen “Mickey” Mansell is in far right column, third from top

Despite her dedication and deep roots in the school’s history, Mrs. Mansell wasn’t allowed to teach upper-level math in the late 1970s. Those classes were reserved for a male teacher who prided himself on making his classes competitive. He openly stated that he taught to the valedictorian and salutatorian—to weed the rest of us out. I was weeded out of trigonometry in the first week. Discouraged and disheartened, I switched to Home Ec. I decided I’d rather study European and American furniture styles than endure that feeling on a regular basis.

I suppose I learned a lesson from him too—but of all my teachers, his was the biggest lesson on what not to do.

This piece is dedicated to the teachers who shaped me, and I want to honor them by name. They were the steady presence that guided a little girl from the country, who against all odds, would leave Littleville and go on to earn a doctorate and become a professor. I grew up knowing I was the “smart girl,” in part because they told me so—through their expectations, patience, and nurturing. They taught me lessons about kindness, resilience, community, and the quiet power of believing in someone. And as I reflect on my own teaching, I realize I’m still learning from them, still carrying their influence with me in every classroom I enter. I thank them so much.

Russellville High School Senior Class Picture, 1981

Sojourners Together: Supporting Students Through the Struggle

Title: Sojourners Together: Supporting Students Through the Struggle

In my last post, I shared how online teaching has rekindled my passion for the classroom. I’m enjoying the challenge of engaging students in new ways, and I’ve found it fulfilling to build connections through messages, stories, and shared experiences. But as much as I’m finding this fresh approach to teaching rewarding, I’m also deeply aware that many of my students are struggling.

Recently, I sent out a weekly check-in message—something simple, just to touch base. While many students voiced their overall enjoyment of the class, several also let me know they’re having a hard time. These aren’t typical undergraduate students juggling part-time jobs and coursework. These are working professionals, members of a cohort in our Master’s in Applied Learning and Instruction program. They teach in local partner school districts. They’re educators, spouses, parents, coaches, community members. They’re churchgoers, pet owners, and caregivers. And yet, despite all these roles, they’ve committed to taking two graduate classes each semester for two years.

Applied Learning and Instruction (M.Ed)

They do this not just for a much-needed pay raise, but for their professional growth—to become better teachers for their students. Our children. And that humbles me. It’s not easy.

These students took a heavy blow during COVID-19. They were asked to be miracle workers, juggling the impossible demands of remote learning while supporting students, families, and their communities. If there was one silver lining to the pandemic, it’s that thousands of parents who had their children learning from home gained a newfound appreciation for teachers. They saw firsthand just how challenging this work is.

And yet, despite all of this, my students show up. They’re willing to do the hard work every day. But I know—and they know—that time is scarce. They probably don’t have six extra hours a week to devote to their studies, yet that’s the general guideline for graduate coursework. They’re balancing it all, and their struggle deepens my sense of responsibility as their instructor.

If I expect them to make time for this class, I have to make it worth their while. I owe them my best. If I want them to give of themselves, I need to give of myself.

Is the reading dry this week? Then I’ll record a discussion to bring it to life. Is the assignment complicated? I’ll walk them through it, step by step. Are assignments feeling routine and uninspired? I’ll revise them to appeal to different learning styles and spark engagement. Do they need more time to complete an assignment? I’ll do my best to accommodate that. Are they feeling overwhelmed? Then I’ll be present—showing up in the class, personalizing my feedback, and ensuring they don’t feel adrift in the online world.

I’ve practiced social-emotional learning long before it had a name. I know the value of a supportive learning environment, and yes, sometimes that means sharing pictures of our five pets to give them a chuckle. It’s about reminding them that I’m here, on the other side of the screen, rooting for them.

As hokey as it might sound, caring is part of the classroom culture I want to cultivate—a culture of care and connection. Teaching can be a lonely profession. Being a professor can be just as isolating. But this online space offers a chance to bridge that gap, to connect people who might otherwise feel alone in their struggles.

It is important that I keep asking them to check in—asking how they’re doing, beyond just the coursework. These check-ins aren’t just about staying informed; they’re about fostering trust and reminding them they’re not alone in this. We are sojourners together this semester. Yes, they will struggle. That’s part of the journey. But the most important assurance I can give them is that I am here. And sometimes, that’s enough to make all the difference.

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