Rediscovering the Multitudes Within You

Written by Dr. Steve Sandoval

Founder | The Flourishing Retiree

My wife and I recently saw The Life of Chuck—a movie that’s definitely a thinker. I’m still unpacking its meaning while also trying not to overanalyze it (a skill I’m still working on). At the heart of the film is a line borrowed from Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself:

“Do I contradict myself? Very well then… I contradict myself; I am large—I contain multitudes.”

That quote, threaded throughout the movie (based on Stephen King’s novella), has stayed with me, especially in my work with retirees.

If I may digress a bit, everyone gravitates to the word multitudes, and for good reason. But what strikes me just as much is the phrase “Very well then.” It’s Whitman’s nod to self-acceptance. A declaration that being complex, inconsistent, or unfinished is not a flaw—it’s what makes us human. That kind of grace isn’t just poetic; it’s critical when you’re trying to figure out who you are outside of past professional or personal responsibilities.

Anyway, back to the movie.

The Life of Chuck unfolds in reverse—from his death back to his childhood—revealing the many unseen, often contradictory, beautifully imperfect layers that shaped him since birth. The brilliance of the film isn’t just in its structure, incredible acting, or emotional punch (though that dance scene is definitely worth the price of admission). It’s a reminder that each of us carries multiple lives within a single lifetime—memories, talents, passions, regrets, reinventions. Whole identities that never made it onto a resume or professional bio.

And that, my friends, is exactly why retirement can hit harder than expected.

When the job ends, so does the hullabaloo for many. And suddenly, you’re left with… yourself. Not the version the world clapped for—the titles, the accolades, the finished tasks—but the fuller, quieter version you may not have seen in quite some time. And if you haven’t taken the time to reconnect with those other parts—the ones buried under decades of duty and routine—it can feel like disconnection.

You might start to wonder: Was that all I was?

It doesn’t always hit right away. For some, it never does. But for many, it sneaks in after about the 20th round of golf or five seasons of Little House on the Prairie is watched on TV—and that’s when they reach out to me.

After all, we’ve been sold a tidy version of retirement: pack up your office, take a cruise, maybe pick up pickleball, and do your best not to get bored. But hidden in that script is a quiet lie—that your useful days are behind you. That your identity retired along with your job. That the best of you belonged to the “before.”

No one talks about that part, but a lot of retirees feel it. Especially when the spark that used to drive them starts to flicker out.

Where Whitman, Chuck, and The Flourishing Retiree Converge.

Here’s the truth: You’re not one tidy storyline. You are a tangled, often complex but beautiful web of stories—some big, some small, some unfinished. That job title? Just one thread. Those parenting years? Another. The dreams you abandoned, the ones you chased, the things you never had time for? All still there.

You still have new characters in your story to meet—some serendipitously—who may change you in unexpected ways. You still have things to teach, places to explore, passions to rediscover. The retirees I work with who truly flourish don’t do so by clinging on to the past. They do it by reclaiming the parts of themselves they put on the shelf decades ago: the artist who never painted. The explorer who never had time to wander. The activist, the writer, the mentor who went unrealized.

And let’s be clear: this isn’t about just “being busy.” That’s a lazy answer. Busyness isn’t meaning, it’s noise. What matters is making space for the multitudes within you. Even the ones you haven’t met yet.

So if you’re asking yourself, Who am I now?—good. That means you’re still awake. Still listening. But don’t wait around for a lightning bolt of clarity. Start small. Scribble. Tinker. Volunteer. Rest. Learn something you never had time to learn. Try. Flop. Try again.

Not because someone expects it, but because your inner voice is still whispering: “There’s more to me than I’ve let on.”

You don’t retire your identity or your purpose—you retire your job. That’s it. And in doing so, you gain one of life’s most underrated freedoms: the chance to start again, or perhaps lean into something that truly fires you up. This next chapter might be messy, full of contradictions, curveballs, and unexpected joy.

“Very well then.” That means you’re doing it right, unapologetically and without self-judgement.

After all, you’re not a finished story.

Because you, too, contain multitudes.

A man stands in awe as he explores a stunning cavern, illuminated by beams of sunlight filtering through the cave entrance.

Want to explore your multitudes? Please log into www.theflourishingretiree.net or reach out to me at theflourishingretiree@gmail.com. Would love to discuss more with you.