About three years ago, I walked away from the sport of fencing, after thirty years. I had many reasons for quitting, some practical and some emotional; mostly it was just recognizing that it wasn’t working for me any more, and that I didn’t want to expend the effort necessary to make it work.

I made it work for a long time, of course. I didn’t start until I was in my 40s, and the sport is designed as a pipeline of youth and teenagers to college fencing and, for a tiny handful, the Olympics. Nonetheless, I managed to train hard enough to get to a high level.

It was worth it to me. I liked practicing. I liked the camaraderie. I liked learning new things, and having a goal. I went to national competitions and to over-50 championships, medaled often, and won sometimes.

Then my husband died. Oh, I still trained while he was ill, and I went to World Veteran Championships in Croatia not long after he died, because I already had my plane tickets, and there I won gold for the fourth time.

But I was weary. You see, part of why I fenced for so long was to get myself out of the house, and now that my husband was gone and I was retired, I had the house all to myself and didn’t really need to escape my responsibilities any more.

I kept going for a while, but it seemed stale.

Some months after Croatia, I competed in yet another tournament, and won it. But afterwards, I sat there in a folding chair in the noisy venue, and thought, “This isn’t worth it.” I didn’t like having to pump myself up to beat some nice long-legged 40-year-old when I was in my 70s, especially when my opponent cared deeply and I didn’t.

It finally just didn’t seem to matter enough. Then I sold my car and didn’t replace it. I couldn’t get to practice any more. I just stopped going. And I didn’t miss it. But I started to miss it yesterday.