There is a moment in a leader’s life…

It often arrives quietly, after the work has been done, the decisions made. The titles still exist—on letterhead, in introductions, in memory—but they no longer structure the days with such persistence.

This is the moment when a question begins to form in the leader’s mind: Who am I, now that the titles are gone?

For decades, our titles provided structure to our lives.

Our titles, our roles, told us where to be and how to be, what to do, and how to measure progress. They offered clarity and assurance, even when the work itself was difficult. 

Our titles rewarded performance, competence, and endurance. But they left little room for reflection.

And because reflection was not urgent, it was not allowed to intrude upon our thoughts.

At some point, the balance shifted.

The pace slowed. The meetings thinned out. The calendar opened. And the long-deferred interior life stepped forward.

Scenes from the past played in our minds; conversations replayed themselves. We began to notice patterns that were invisible at the time, to see the values that guided us, the compromises that shaped us, the costs we accepted without acknowledging them, let alone naming them. 

Memoir often begins here. 

It begins with the desire to record events specifically for the purpose of understanding them, and for understanding ourselves. 

What did those title-driven decades require of me?

What did they give, what did they take away?

Memory, revisited later in life, is less concerned with what happened than with what mattered.

The mind returns not to the shining glories and glittering milestones, but to moments that once seemed minor: a choice made under pressure, a relationship left unresolved, a value compromised, or affirmed, when no one was watching.

These are not the moments we mention on our résumés. But they are the moments that shaped our character and our lives.

When the titles fall away, what remains is not a list of accomplishments.

What remains are the ways of thinking and responding, the lines that were crossed and held.

What remains are the values we lived by, even if imperfectly.

What remains are the stories we carry about who we were to others, and who others were to us.

What remains are the quiet doubts.

For many people, this is the stage of life when those remains begin to beg for expression. For clarity and insight.

This impulse is not about legacy in the public sense.

Instead, it is about coherence. About seeing one’s life not as a series of titles but as a human journey. A journey lived sometimes wisely, sometimes bravely, sometimes blindly and foolishly.

This impulse is about offering future generations context. Not conclusions, but perspective. Not a blueprint, but a record of how decisions felt from the inside.

Not every life needs to be explained.

But many of us want to understand our lives. 

And often, it is only when the titles recede that we have the space to ask the questions we had no time for:

What did my life stand for? What endured beneath the titles and roles? What remains?

Some questions do not require immediate answers. They simply require room.

And sometimes, giving them that room is the most meaningful work left to do.