A year ago, commentator Cam Marston was plotting his escape from a job he'd come to hate. This morning, he tells us what changed, and why it's made these commentaries harder to write.

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I almost didn't write this. Again. You see, these commentaries have been hard to write lately. There's a lot going on. I wake up with work to-do lists in my head, and my volunteer projects, like these commentaries, fall toward the bottom. That's both a good thing and a bad thing.

You see, about a year ago I was so bored with my work that I was contriving ways to stop working. I hated it. That's no exaggeration. I was asking people to help me find a real job, one where I didn't have to worry every day about making sales and delivering for my clients. All I wanted was to show up, take my boss's orders, do the work, and go home. Let someone else carry the stress of finding customers and keeping them happy. I wanted to be a worker bee, not a rainmaker.

Then a few things happened.

First, I was on a client call with a smile pasted on my face, faking enthusiasm, when the client mentioned a product they needed and couldn't find. I've always loved creating things for my work, and I hadn't done it in a long time. I saw a chance to build something a client actually needed. They were, in fact, handing me the blueprint. I was intrigued.

Second, I pulled together a small team of co-creators. They were guys about my age who I knew a little and liked. They were smart, responsible, and eager. They took a measured approach to things. No hysterics. That was new for me, and I liked the feeling of accomplishing something as a group, as a team.

Third, what we built truly helped people. It addressed a problem folks had faced for a long time but rarely talked about. We started hearing that it was working, that it was helping, that it had real value. And in an unexpected turn, that excitement spilled back into my old work. New energy found its way to old places.

Then I learned enough about AI to redesign my website myself. That was a blast, and it probably saved me more than $20,000. I put those same skills to work on the new business. I was learning, creating, solving a real problem for clients, and working with people I liked.

So today I climb out of bed with to-do lists in my head and get straight to work. And honestly, it feels great. Especially since a year ago I was doing everything I could to find a way out. I was plotting how to convince my wife to sell the house and downsize so I could retire early, like immediately, and stop trudging off to the God-forsaken salt mines.

It's a blessing. I feel lucky. And one unintended consequence is that I'm struggling to write these commentaries. They're getting squeezed. There's too much to do. So please forgive me if I take a Friday off now and then.

I'm Cam Marston, and I'm just trying to keep it real.

Most of us define ourselves by what we do for a living, and that label can stick long after the job is gone. Commentator Cam Marston met a man in Chicago this week who was struggling to let go of his, and the conversation hit closer to home than Cam expected.

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I was in Chicago earlier this week delivering a workshop on retirement studies. The room was full with about fifty people there and some standing against the wall.

When the workshop was over a few people hung around to ask questions. One man lingered until everyone was gone. "Cam," he said, "I left engineering several years ago to become a financial advisor. I enjoy my work. My engineering skills have been helpful as a financial advisor. But still today, when people ask me what I do, I tell them I'm an engineer who is now a financial advisor. I'm having a hard time letting go of my engineering identity. Do you have any thoughts why?"

I said that becoming an engineer is not easy. That degree requires a lot of time and sacrifice and engineers are rightly proud of their training. "Yea," he said, "but I'm not an engineer anymore."

I remembered a story that may offer insight. After the Second World War, the remaining Japanese soldiers were struggling to transition to the post-war world. The Emperor of Japan gathered them and told them, in a somewhat formal ceremony, that he and the nation were very proud and grateful for their work as soldiers. They had served their country well and had done everything they had been asked to do. However, the emperor said, the country no longer needs soldiers. It needs builders and men of the community and husbands and fathers. You're released, the emperor said, from your role as soldier. Go now be something that your country needs today.

Maybe, I told the guy in front of me, he needs to release himself from being an engineer so he can fully be a financial advisor. Perhaps he should carry a piece of paper for a week and write down every part of him that was an engineer on that paper and keep adding to the list. Carry a second sheet and the engineer parts of him that will serve him as an advisor need to be added to the second sheet. After he's filled the engineer page and exhausted his thoughts, burn that paper. Do it with a bit of ceremony. Put his old self to rest. He's no longer that person. He's something new. And he's given himself permission to move on like the emperor gave the soldiers permission to move on.

The man in front of me eyes were wet. He said, "If I knew you better, I'd be crying right now." It was clear that he was really struggling to let go of his former self.

What is it about our identity and our past that we cling to so tightly? What is it about how we formerly defined ourselves that we can't let it go? What's this deep hold that our job and our background have on us so much so that we seek permission from strangers to transition away? This man's struggle touched me because, I think, deep down, I recognize that it will be mine, too.

I'm Cam Marston just trying to Keep it Real.

Cam and his wife finally got the traveling life they'd talked about for years. This week he files a report on what that dream actually looks like — from an uncomfortable chair in the Atlanta airport.

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I'm in hour four of the Delta SkyClub in the Atlanta airport. I have two more hours to go. I've eaten two dozen carrot sticks, a couple servings of some sort of mustard chicken thing, a pile of pita chips and so many small cubes of cheese that tomorrow should worry me. And some chardonnay. I'm not sure how much. Enough that the bartender sees me coming and begins pouring me a new glass.

My wife is with me. She's now retired and is able to join me in my travels to interesting places. We're returning from Monterey, California where the weather was a merciful 65 degrees each day. We wandered around a lot, she shopped one day while I wandered the streets of Carmel with a cigar, getting horrific anti-tobacco looks from Californians, and spent half a day on a whale watching tour where we saw a bumper crop of humpbacks and watched up close while four orcas stalked a pod of dolphins and killed one and ate it in front of us. Everyone loves orcas and everyone loves dolphins but watching the former kill and eat the latter is a tough scene. I didn't know who to cheer for - the Orca mother who was teaching her babies how to hunt, or Flipper. Flipper did his best, by the way. He deserves credit for the fight.

Anyway, like I said, my wife is with me. She and I have talked for years of traveling some day and it's finally that someday. Weekends are full of travel for the next many weeks and she's joining me on a work trip to Vietnam in December. It's happening, we're telling each other. The travel we've always dreamed of is finally happening.

Which may sound good until I remind you I'm in hour four at the Atlanta airport. Our connecting flight where we were going standby left – get this! – EARLY. We would have made it, but it left early. If you're a passenger on that plane, you're digging the plane leaving early. If you're doing hustle-shuffle walk-run through the airport lugging a two-ton shoulder bag to make the connection, you're furious. Wait, I thought we had a reservation? Since when do planes leave early? When did that become a thing? The same thing happened to my wife and her buddies last weekend. They missed their plane home because it left early and they had to rent a car and drive. Being in places like Monterey is wonderful. But getting to and from Monterey is not fun. Thankfully my wife and I have this Sky Club lounge, carrot sticks, and a bartender who starts the pour when he sees my face. It makes it all tolerable.

I can't help but think about Flipper. Four orcas, no exit, but he fought and made them earn it. Maybe that's Lisa and me — each of us hauling two-ton bags to a gate for a plane that's already gone. We lost. But here we are. And that some day's finally happening. Flipper did his best. So will we.

I'm Cam Marston, and I'm just trying to keep it real.