ACT III

“Forty-seven years,” she said. “Can you believe it? We’ve been married forty-seven years today.”

There was immense pride in her voice.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s quite an accomplishment.”

She had a big grin on her face—pensive, nostalgic.

“You two must be very happy together.” I noticed the grin fade. “What’s your secret?”

“I won’t let him retire,” she said, and then changed the subject.

This was early in our professional coaching relationship, and it soon became clear that the pride she took in the longevity of their marriage was masking something else.

He had always been emotionally unavailable, she said. Their marriage, in her telling, was one of convenience and necessity. She cried on her wedding day.

My own private assessment—colored, no doubt, by what I was hearing week after week—was that she treated him like property and resented him for failing to perform the role she needed him to play.

She did finally “let him retire.”

I noted the occasion of their anniversary the following year. “Forty-eight years!” I prompted her.

“Yeah,” she said. “A life sentence.”

I enjoyed having her as a client, but our engagement eventually reached its natural conclusion.

I’ve been thinking of her recently as I reflect on areas in my own life where stability has quietly masked complacency—not as an indictment of her choices, but as recognition of echoes in my own.

At what point did I conflate endurance with momentum?

I’ve lived in the same apartment in Los Angeles for more than twenty-three years. I’ve worked for the same employer for more than seventeen. Both were once sources of pride and stability. Both have, over time, become untenable.

What, exactly, is there to be proud of? What am I celebrating other than loyalty and longevity for their own sake?

Both the job and the home once brought me joy. Now they are millstones—burdens I carry rather than choose. My rent has increased by more than 150 percent during my tenancy. My income has not.

A few months ago, during yet another rant about my job, my coach said to me, “What if these experiences are telling you it’s time to move on?”

I burst into tears.

That was when I understood that—somewhere along the way—my job had become my identity. I don’t cry easily. That realization struck at something raw.

With a bit of distance—and coaching—I can now call it grief. I’ve been grieving this job for years, though most of that time was spent in denial, bargaining, and anger.

I stayed, in part, because I genuinely love the work itself. I enjoy working with my clients one-on-one. The work feels meaningful. I can see the impact I have on someone’s life.

But the job itself is anything but stable. I work as a fitness and nutrition coach—an elevated title for what is, at its core, personal training. I came to the role late in life. Personal training is generally a young person’s domain; I was thirty-five when I started.

My role expanded early. I began educating staff across Los Angeles, mentoring and onboarding, teaching classes and workshops, assisting with administrative work. I resisted moving into management; it felt too far removed from the purpose that had brought me there.

Still, nothing about the job is consistent. Fully commission-based, the hours and pay fluctuate constantly. Management cycles through. With each rotation, my sense of value diminishes. Less weight is given to experience, leadership, or tenure.

The business favors youth. Athletic physiques. Tans.

I should have known that.

I did, once.

Because of the flexible hours, the job was always meant to be a launching pad—space to pursue additional interests. An online business. A professional coaching practice. A writing career.

The stability I believed the job would provide has never arrived. If anything, it’s eroded. Instead, I work harder for less, always telling myself I’ll finally launch Act III once things settle. They never seem to.

And so I find myself at a crossroads—chagrined that I should have planned this better, and aware, too late, that I’ve stayed too long at the fair.

After years of what felt like security—same job, same home—I am reckoning with the complacency that brought me here, stuck at the top of a ladder leaning against the wrong wall.

The choices between comfort and stability versus growth and momentum were never obvious. Like many long marriages, endurance can be both an achievement and a sacrifice. No one flags the choices along the way.

Inertia, after all, has the least friction. Comfort is insidious.

A client asked me recently how long I’d been working there.

“Over seventeen years,” I said.

“Wow,” he replied. “That’s quite an accomplishment. You must be really happy.”

I used to think so.