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Retirement Looks Like Farming, and My Dog Living His Best Life
Boomers ran to the city. I’m building a quiet escape route out.
My dream retirement doesn’t involve Tuscany villas, wine tastings, or cruise ship salsa classes. I want something far more millennial. Far less Instagrammable. Far more me.
I want a farm in Kerala.
Not the #farmvibes content farm with floaty dresses and lemons in jute baskets. I mean an actual working farm. With sweat. With mud. With chutneys crushed on a mortar and pestle that weighs more than my emotional baggage.
And I want Lucky — my rescue dog, my emotional support chaos unit — to run across a wide field like the royal he clearly believes he is. Smiling, tail wagging, ears flapping, covered in joy and questionable amounts of dirt.
This isn’t just a cute little rural fantasy. It’s a generational course correction.
My grandfather moved to the city for a government job. He brought his daughters and their cousins along, got them educated, and got them settled. It was the stuff of generational success. City life was the prize.
But I’m not chasing the city anymore. I’m looking for the exit.
