life – Page 2 – Simply O

The Watch That No longer Winds Itself:

For years, I wore the same automatic watch.

It accompanied me through hospital corridors, clinic rooms, board meetings, airport terminals, and journeys across continents. I rarely thought about it. It simply worked. As long as it remained on my wrist, it remained alive.

Recently, however, I noticed something had changed.

Despite being worn every day, the watch would gradually lose power unless I wound it manually every few days. Assuming something was wrong, I had it serviced. Yet the problem persisted.

Eventually, I arrived at an unexpected conclusion.

Perhaps nothing was wrong with the watch.

Perhaps what had changed was me.

An automatic watch draws its energy from motion. Not dramatic motion, but the countless small movements of ordinary life—the swing of an arm while walking, the gesture of a hand while speaking, the rhythm of a busy day. For decades, my life supplied that energy without effort. Medicine demanded movement. Responsibility demanded movement. Ambition demanded movement.

Then retirement arrived.

The days became quieter. There was more reading and less rushing. More reflection and fewer deadlines. More time spent sitting with thoughts, family, books, and memories. The watch remained on my wrist, but the life that once powered it had changed.

And so the watch began asking something of me.

A few turns of the crown every now and then.

At first I saw it as an inconvenience. Now I see it differently.

There is wisdom in a machine that reminds us of the relationship between movement and vitality.

Not all movement is physical. The body may slow, but the spirit must continue to move. Curiosity must continue to move. Love must continue to move. Purpose must continue to move. Faith must continue to move.

A life without motion eventually winds down, whether measured by a watch or by the heart.

Yet there is another lesson.

The watch no longer sustains itself from the unconscious momentum of a busy life. It now requires intentional energy. In that respect, it mirrors retirement perfectly. The structures that once provided purpose automatically are gone. What remains is the invitation to choose purpose deliberately.

The winding of the watch has become a small ritual.

A reminder that life is not sustained merely by being alive, but by engaging with life itself.

Perhaps that is why I no longer mind winding it.

Each turn of the crown is a quiet acknowledgment that while one season has ended, another has begun. The pace may be slower, but the need for movement remains.

After all, even a watch knows that time alone is not enough.

Something must keep it going.

Simply O.

The Question of if:

People often ask about the “why” behind a decision.

Why retire?

Why travel?

Why write?

Why change course after decades of following a familiar path?

For much of my life, I believed that “why” was the most important question. It seemed to hold the key to purpose, motivation, and meaning. Leaders ask it. Coaches ask it. Authors write entire books around it.

But lately, I have begun to wonder if the more important question is not why, but if.

The truth is that most of us can construct a compelling “why.”

We can explain our motivations. We can articulate our dreams. We can tell ourselves stories about what we hope to accomplish or who we hope to become.

The “why” often lives in the realm of aspiration.

The “if” lives in the realm of reality.

If I make this decision, what becomes possible?

If I take this path, what are the consequences?

If I step away from what is familiar, will I be okay?

If I pursue this opportunity, does it align with the life I want to create?

The more I reflect on major decisions in my own life, the more I realize that the most consequential moments were not resolved by answering “why.”

They were resolved by answering “if.”

Retirement was not simply a question of why I wanted to retire. The reasons were obvious: more time with family, freedom to travel, opportunities to write, photograph, and explore the world.

The deeper question was:

If I retire now, will my family be secure?

If I retire now, can we sustain the life we have built?

If I retire now, what opportunities might emerge that are unavailable while I am working?

Only after those questions were answered did clarity emerge.

I have come to believe that an affirmative answer to “if” is what I often call alignment.

Alignment occurs when aspiration and reality shake hands.

When values, resources, timing, and opportunity all point in the same direction.

When the answer is no longer merely desirable, but workable.

Not perfect.

Not risk-free.

Not guaranteed.

But aligned.

Perhaps that is why the question of “if” feels so grounding.

It forces us to gather many threads together—our finances, our relationships, our health, our obligations, our dreams, and our fears.

The “why” can sometimes be driven by emotion.

The “if” demands examination.

The “why” can be imagined.

The “if” must be tested.

And when the answer comes back yes, something remarkable happens.

The internal debate begins to quiet.

The need for justification fades.

There is a sense that the pieces fit.

Not because the future is certain, but because the direction is clear.

I am increasingly convinced that this is where wisdom resides.

Not in finding better reasons.

But in asking better questions.

And perhaps the most important question is this:

If this path is aligned with my values, my responsibilities, and my vision for the future—what am I waiting for?

For me, the answer to that question has opened doors to retirement, travel, writing, family, and a life that continues to unfold in unexpected ways.

The older I get, the less interested I become in explaining why.

And the more interested I become in discovering what becomes possible when the answer to “if” is yes.

— Simply O.

Somewhere Between Leaving and Arriving

One year after retirement, I realized the journey was never about escape. It was about alignment—found somewhere between airports, oceans, memory, and becoming.

One year into the Journey

Somewhere between the leaving…
and the arriving…
I found something I wasn’t looking for.

Not in one place.
Not in one moment.
But scattered—across cities, coastlines, quiet streets, and long flights between them.

A year ago, I stepped away from a life that had long defined me. For decades, my days were structured—measured in decisions, responsibilities, and outcomes. It was meaningful, deeply so. But it was also constant.

And then, one day, it wasn’t.

I remember reading something at 30,000 feet—somewhere between continents, suspended between what was and what was next. It said most of us are moving through life somewhere between shining and just getting by.

And for the first time, I had the distance to ask:

Where was I, really?

Retirement didn’t answer that question.

It created the space for it.

At first, the absence of structure feels unsettling. You reach for the familiar rhythms—deadlines, meetings, the quiet validation of productivity. But slowly, something shifts.

The absence becomes space.
And the space becomes possibility.

Over the past year, I’ve stood on coastlines where the only clock was the tide. I’ve walked through cities where getting lost felt more meaningful than arriving. I returned to Lagos and found memory waiting for me there. I sat in cafés and airport lounges where time slowed just enough for reflection to finally catch up.

And in those moments, something began to change.

Not suddenly.
But steadily.

The things I once thought defined me—titles, roles, expectations—started to fade into the background. Not gone, but no longer in control.

In their place, something quieter emerged.

A different way of living.

One not driven by urgency, but by presence.

Every destination has left something with me. Not simply memories, but clarity. A realization that the life I had built was only one expression of who I am—not the entirety of it.

And perhaps the most unexpected truth of all:

What I thought I had to be… was never the full story.

The noise that once filled my days has softened. The constant internal dialogue of responsibility and expectation has given way to something more measured, more intentional.

More… mine.

I spent years working to feel alive.

Now, I’m learning what it means to simply live.

Not defined by a title.
Not anchored to a place.
Not measured by output.

Just present.
Just aware.
Just open to whatever comes next.

One year into this journey, I wouldn’t say I’ve arrived.

But I’ve stopped trying to.

Because somewhere along the way—between airports and oceans, between familiar beginnings and unknown horizons—

I found something better than certainty.

I found a life that felt less constructed… and more true.

I found alignment.

The journey, I’m learning, is not about finding where you are going.

It is about discovering who has been traveling with you all along.

Yourself.

Because distance does not merely separate you from places—it reveals you to yourself.

And when the noise fades, truth does not rush in.

It waits patiently to be noticed.

Simply O.

The Contradictions of Europe

Bridges and Brokenness

Europe revealed itself not through monuments alone, but through contradictions. Through bridges built after wars, beauty rising from ruins, and stories of people carrying both scars and hope. I arrived expecting landscapes and history; I left having found something deeper — reminders that nations, like people, are often held together by what has broken them.

Europe revealed itself slowly.

Not merely through castles rising above rivers, cathedrals reaching toward heaven, or cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. It revealed itself through layers of memory carried almost like sediment along the rivers we followed. Layer upon layer deposited over centuries: triumph and tragedy, brilliance and brutality, faith and conflict, destruction and renewal.

Everywhere there seemed to be bridges.

Bridges spanning the Danube and connecting cities once divided. Bridges joining East and West after walls and iron curtains had fallen. Bridges between strangers who sat beside us at dinner and somehow became companions. Bridges between who we once were and who we are becoming.

But I also found brokenness.

Europe remembers its wounds openly. Memorials stand where suffering occurred. Plaques sit quietly on walls. Churches rise beside reminders of war. Cities rebuilt after destruction still speak of what came before. There seems to be little attempt to erase pain; instead, there is an understanding that remembering itself is an act of healing.

Again and again, I found myself standing in beautiful places while hearing stories of occupation, persecution, world wars, and lives interrupted. It felt almost impossible to separate beauty from sorrow because Europe itself seems unwilling to separate them.

And perhaps people are not so different.

As a physician, I found myself noticing my fellow travelers almost as much as the monuments. Some moved with ease; others moved with deliberate care. Some carried visible limitations while others carried burdens that could not be seen. I recognized in them what I also recognize in myself: scars carried quietly beneath the surface.

We all arrive with them.

Some physical. Some emotional. Some spoken of freely and others carefully guarded.

And yet we continue.

We climb hills despite aching feet. We walk ancient streets despite tired legs. We pursue beauty despite loss. We continue crossing bridges.

Travel has a strange way of removing noise from life. Somewhere between riverbanks and railway stations, between museums and meals, between conversations and long walks, unnecessary things begin to fall away.

Clarity appears.

I began this journey believing it would be about discovery — discovering places, cultures, histories, landscapes.

Increasingly, I realized it had become something else.

It became something quieter.

It became about being.

About understanding the human spirit.

About realizing that we are all travelers of one sort or another, moving through seasons of strength and weakness, trying to make sense of the limited time we have been given.

I met an eighty-six-year-old traveler still seeing the world with curiosity and wonder. I watched fellow travelers persevere through aching knees, canes, fatigue, and age. I listened to stories of transition, loss, and hope. And somewhere in all of it, I found myself reflecting on the truth that time eventually humbles us all.

But perhaps that is also the gift.

Because once we recognize that our days are finite, beauty becomes more precious, conversations become richer, and experiences become less about checking destinations from a list and more about receiving them fully.

Perhaps that is Europe’s deepest contradiction:

Among reminders of humanity at its worst, one also encounters humanity at its best.

Beauty rising from ruins.

Bridges rising from brokenness.

And somewhere between them, perhaps finding pieces of ourselves.

Fuller details of this journey available under Europe Unfolds under Europe.

Some journeys move us across rivers and borders; the deeper ones carry us through memory, beauty, grief, gratitude, and the sacred work of becoming whole.

— Simply O.

The Skin We Live In.

An Easter Reflection

From a biological standpoint, there is something quietly profound about the human body.

Our skin—the part of us most visible to the world—is composed of layers. The dermis beneath, and the epidermis above. And at the very surface lies what is known as the stratum corneum—a layer made up almost entirely of dead cells.

Cells that have fulfilled their purpose.

Cells that no longer live… yet still cover us.

They protect us.

They define our outward appearance.

And they are constantly being shed, replaced, renewed.

In a sense, we are all walking around covered in what is no longer alive.

The Illusion of Permanence

And yet, despite this remarkable process of renewal, we age.

The body changes.

Time leaves its imprint.

And slowly, unmistakably, we are reminded of a truth that no advancement in science has been able to reverse:

This body was never designed to last forever.

What We See… and What We Are

There is something humbling in realizing that our most outward expression—our skin, our appearance—is, in large part, composed of what has already passed.

What the world sees first… is not the essence of who we are.

It is a covering.

A temporary layer.

A reflection, not the core.

A Quiet Message Over Time

Perhaps this is why aging brings with it a different kind of clarity.

The things we once held tightly—appearance, perception, external identity—begin to loosen their grip.

And in their place, something deeper emerges:

Character.

Wisdom.

Faith.

Grace.

Things that do not shed.

Things that do not fade in the same way.

The Easter Connection

And in this, Easter offers a profound reminder:

That life is not defined by what is outward and temporary…

but by what is enduring and unseen.

That what fades is not the final story.

And what is renewed is not always visible to the eye.

Final Reflection

We spend much of our lives tending to what is seen…

yet the deeper work is always within.

Closing Thought

The body may age, the surface may fade, but the essence of who we are was never meant to be confined to what is visible.

— Simply O

The Illusion of Flight

“Not everything that feels like ascent is progress. Sometimes, we are simply falling—with confidence.”

There is a quiet illusion that often accompanies success.

A sense of lift. Of movement. Of ascent.

We mistake motion for direction.

We mistake speed for purpose.

And sometimes… we mistake falling for flying.

There is a moment—early on—when everything feels right.

The wind rushes past.

The world expands beneath you.

You feel elevated… chosen… unstoppable.

In that moment, there is no fear.

Only the intoxicating belief that you are rising.

But perception is not truth.

And elevation is not always ascent.

Then something shifts—subtly at first.

The ground, once distant, begins to take shape.

Clarity replaces illusion.

What felt like control begins to feel uncertain.

What felt like progress begins to feel… fast.

Too fast.

But by then, momentum has taken over.

And momentum does not ask for permission.

And then—the truth arrives.

Not gradually.

Not gently.

But all at once.

The realization that what felt like flight…

was never flight at all.

It was descent—misunderstood.

And in that final moment, clarity comes—

but too late to change direction.

Closing Reflection

We all have seasons like this.

In our careers.

In our finances.

In our decisions.

Even in our convictions.

Moments when everything feels like upward movement—

until reality reminds us otherwise.

Wisdom is not just in rising.

It is in discerning.

Are we truly flying…

or simply falling with confidence?

“True elevation is not measured by how high we feel, but by how firmly we are grounded in truth.”

Simply O.

From Accumulator to Steward

The Psychology of Retirement

For most of my life, I was an accumulator.
Across three continents, I worked, studied, saved, sacrificed, and built.

Nigeria to the United Kingdom.

United Kingdom to the United States.

Resident to physician.

Physician to Medical Director.

The formula was simple:

Work hard.

Spend carefully.

Save aggressively.

Delay gratification.

Let time compound.

It worked.

But something curious happened when I retired.

The operating system flipped.

The Jarring Transition

In less than a month, I moved from accumulation to distribution.

For over four decades, I trained myself to say:

“Not yet.”

Not yet on indulgence.

Not yet on luxury.

Not yet on upgrades.

Even when I could afford more, I chose restraint.

Then, after retirement, I bought my first first-class ticket.

And I hesitated.

Not because I couldn’t afford it.

Not because it was irresponsible.

But because it violated the psychological wiring that built my success.

That surprised me.

The Strange Irony of Compounding

What makes this transition even stranger is this:

Even at average market returns, our wealth continues to grow.

The machine I spent decades building now runs on its own.

And yet, instinctively, I still guard it —

as if one indulgent decision might unravel everything.

That is the dichotomy.

Mathematically secure.

Psychologically vigilant.

The Immigrant Mindset

Perhaps this is common among immigrants.

When you build from uncertainty, security becomes sacred.

Frugality isn’t just a habit —

it’s armor.

Savings isn’t just financial planning —

it’s emotional protection.

Letting go of that armor, even partially, feels vulnerable.

The Realization About Time

There is another layer.

I am now 63.

Statistically, two-thirds of my life is behind me.

That realization does something profound.

Retirement is not simply a financial event.

It is an existential one.

You are forced to confront:

How much time remains.
What truly matters.
What legacy means.
Who you are when you are no longer “the doctor.”

That reorientation is far more significant than the balance sheet.

From Accumulator to Steward

I’ve come to realize something important.

I am not moving from accumulation to consumption.

I am moving from builder to steward.

The goal is no longer:

“How much can I grow this?”

It is now:

“How intentionally can I deploy this?”

Deploy toward:

Experiences with my wife.
Travel with purpose.
Family structure and legacy.
Philanthropy.
Health.
Writing.
Reflection.
Time.

This is not indulgence.

It is alignment.

A Different Question

For most of my life, I asked:

“Can I afford this?”

Now I’m learning to ask:

“Does this serve the life I am intentionally crafting?”

That is a harder question.

But it is a better one.

Do All Retirees Go Through This?

I suspect many do — especially those who built wealth rather than inherited it.

When your identity is tied to discipline, productivity, and accumulation,

retirement requires psychological recalibration.

You must learn to trust the system you built.

You must learn to enjoy what you delayed.

You must learn that spending wisely in retirement is not erosion.

It is execution.

Final Reflection

There is a quiet shift that happens when the drive to prove gives way to the freedom to choose.

I am no longer building for survival.

I am shaping for legacy.

And perhaps the greatest discipline of this stage of life

is not saving more.

It is releasing well.

— Simply O

The Arc, The Dream, and Why I Still Believe

I am an immigrant. I came to America not as a descendant of its earliest wounds, but as someone who chose it. I built my life here. I trained, worked, led, invested, raised daughters, paid taxes, and contributed to the institutions that make this country function. I have lived the American dream — not perfectly, not effortlessly — but honestly and through discipline.

That is why I care.

When public discourse becomes careless with truth — when arithmetic is stretched beyond recognition, when rhetoric replaces seriousness — it unsettles me. Not because I expect perfection from leaders. No democracy has ever had that. It unsettles me because words matter. Facts matter. Institutions matter. A republic depends on shared reality.

Yet even in moments of disappointment, I remain grounded.

I believe in the arc of justice. History is not linear, but over time it has bent toward broader inclusion, deeper rights, and greater opportunity. There have been dark chapters — civil war, segregation, corruption, political hysteria — but the constitutional core endured. The system corrected. Not instantly. Not painlessly. But steadily.

I also believe in the fundamental goodness of the human spirit.

I grew up in Nigeria, lived for a decade in the United Kingdom, and ultimately built my life in the United States. Across continents and cultures, I have seen the same thing: ordinary people want dignity, opportunity, and fairness. They want to work. They want their children to rise higher than they did. They want stability more than spectacle.

America, at its best, uniquely affirms that your origin does not determine your ceiling. That you can come from anywhere, work hard, contribute meaningfully, and build something lasting. I am evidence of that promise. My daughters are evidence of that promise.

The American dream does not depend on flawless speeches. It depends on durable institutions — rule of law, capital markets, education, civic participation — and on citizens who take their responsibilities seriously. Those foundations remain.

I am disappointed at times. But I am not cynical.

Disappointment means I expect more. Cynicism would mean I expect nothing.

I choose not to surrender to cynicism. Because I have seen too much evidence — in my own life and in the broader sweep of history — that the arc does bend. Slowly. Imperfectly. But persistently.

And I want my daughters to inherit not just wealth or security, but confidence in the idea that effort still matters, integrity still matters, and justice, though delayed at times, is not defeated.

That is why I still believe.

Simply O

A Thanksgiving Reflection: A Grateful Heart Amid the Journey.

This year has tested and stretched me in ways I could never have imagined. There were moments that demanded strength I didn’t know I possessed, seasons that revealed how fragile plans can be, and lessons that reminded me that grace is not earned — it’s freely given. Through it all, I’ve learned that gratitude isn’t reserved for the easy days; it’s born in the quiet resilience that grows from hardship.

As I pause to reflect this Thanksgiving, I am profoundly grateful — not because everything has been perfect, but because grace met me at every imperfection. I’ve witnessed the faithfulness of God in the small mercies and in the grand provisions. The love of family, the loyalty of friends, the unexpected kindness of strangers, and the strength to keep going — these are blessings beyond measure.

So, I enter this season with a grateful heart. Grateful for the storms that refined me, for the peace that followed, and for the countless ways my journey has been guided by unseen hands. May this Thanksgiving be a reminder to us all: even in life’s uncertainties, gratitude remains the surest expression of faith.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone.
Simply O

Title: Day 2 – Family, Food, and Finding My Roots

Category: Travel Journal

Tags: Lagos, Ogun State, Family Visit, Nigeria, M Lounge, Glaucoma Awareness

A Morning in Lagos

Woke up this morning feeling refreshed and recharged.

I did notice the scale tipping upward slightly—unsurprising, given how hard it is to resist the rich, nostalgic flavors of home. There’s something about the tastes you grew up with that calls to you, calorie count or not.

Being in the tropics, we kept to our daily ritual of taking Malarone—our antimalarial prophylactic. Unlike the typhoid vaccine, which we completed before departure, this one is a daily commitment while we’re here.

With that done, we headed down to the Marriott M Lounge for breakfast.

Breakfast: A Blend of Home and Abroad

As expected, breakfast was sumptuous.

I had a delicious mix of oatmeal and orange juice—classic continental staples—but also couldn’t resist the Nigerian yam and egg combo, topped with a spicy pepper sauce that was absolutely 🔥.

It’s a beautiful thing when breakfast feels like a cultural reunion.

On the Road to Otta

We soon set out to visit my mother in Otta, Ogun State.

Navigating Lagos traffic is a full-body experience—less about the distance and more about maneuvering through a moving maze. The roads themselves aren’t terrible, but the sheer volume of cars creates a kind of vehicular ballet as everyone jostles for space.

One thing I hadn’t seen in a while?

🛒 Street hawkers weaving through traffic, selling everything from bottled water to plantain chips—negotiating deals through car windows. It’s chaotic, yes—but also uniquely Nigerian.

And I’ll say this:

✅ The traffic lights? They work.

A Visit to My Mother

Visiting my mother was deeply grounding.

Though her health is challenged—she’s legally blind due to glaucoma and battles severe arthritis—her spirit remains unshaken. We sat together, reminisced about family stories, and she offered a heartfelt prayer for us all, especially in honor of my retirement.

In that moment, I felt the weight of heritage and the grace of belonging.

Despite my earlier apprehension, this visit reminded me of who I am and where I come from. It was humbling—and necessary.

Evening Reflections: Shared Meals and Quiet Joy

We returned to the hotel for a light refreshment at the M Lounge, anticipating a special delivery:

🍽️ Home-cooked meals from my sister.

Back in our room, we gathered as a family—brothers, sisters, niece, and nephew—sharing dishes full of local delicacies, laughter, and memories. These are the kinds of evenings that fill the soul, not just the stomach.

Eventually, as the night settled, everyone headed out. We packed up for the night and reflected quietly on what had been a full and meaningful day.

Looking Ahead

So far, I must admit—my initial fears have been mostly misplaced.

But tomorrow begins another chapter: traveling to the hinterlands to begin the process of organizing my wife’s family home.

That story unfolds next.