My third palm oil mill in my second company was located about 120 km from Miri City, Sarawak. It sat beside Loagan Bunut National Park, not far from Long Lama, on the banks of the mighty Baram River that flows from the deep interior of Sarawak to Kuala Baram before meeting the South China Sea.
Getting there was an adventure in itself.
The road was mostly gravel, serving as the main route for logging trucks transporting timber to paper mills. Every now and then, a giant logging truck would thunder past. During the rainy season, the road turned into mud and potholes. During the dry season, clouds of dust covered every vehicle until it looked as though it had just driven through a swamp. Along that route were three palm oil mills, and mine was the second furthest from town.
Because of the long and exhausting journey, anyone visiting the mill almost always stayed overnight at the estate. As was common in plantation life, the mill manager's bungalow became a place to welcome guests. I actually enjoyed that, because I lived there alone most of the time. I always made sure visitors stayed as honoured guests rather than attempting the tiring drive back to Miri.
Every three months, I would receive a visit from a Professional Electrical Engineer who carried out the statutory electrical inspection required by the Energy Commission of Malaysia (Suruhanjaya Tenaga). After each inspection, he would submit his report to the Commission. My mill was usually his final destination after visiting the first mill along the same road.
Sometimes he brought chocolates for my children. It was a small gesture, but one that my family always appreciated.
That evening, as usual, we had dinner together. The estate canteen prepared fresh river fish caught from a nearby river, steamed in the simplest yet most delicious way. He was the owner of an electrical engineering consultancy company and was already in his early sixties.
At that time, I was only in my thirties.
Curious, I asked him, "Why don't you retire? You've reached retirement age. You've achieved so much in life."
He smiled before answering.
"Actually, I did try to retire."
After turning sixty, he handed over the company to his engineers to manage. His daughter was living in Australia, where she was pursuing her career as a professional tennis player. He flew there and spent a few weeks with her, expecting retirement to be relaxing and enjoyable.
Then he laughed.
"By the second week, I was already bored."
He said he missed his daily routine—the meetings, responsibilities, site visits, and the feeling of being needed. A life without challenges felt strangely empty.
I listened quietly.
The night was peaceful, accompanied only by the sound of crickets outside the bungalow, filling the silence of the plantation.
Then he gave me advice that I have never forgotten.
"You're still young. You have many commitments—housing loans, car loans, raising children, building your career, supporting your family, and dealing with life's endless challenges."
He paused before continuing.
"But when retirement comes, many of those challenges disappear. The loans are paid off. The children grow up. The responsibilities become lighter. And that's when life can start to feel... empty."
Then came the lesson.
"So plan your retirement wisely. And appreciate every challenge you're facing today. One day, those struggles will become beautiful memories. Challenges and trials give meaning to our lives."
His words stayed with me.
Whenever I was late paying my car loan, struggling with the house mortgage, or watching my savings disappear because of my children's needs and family responsibilities, I remembered his advice.
Instead of complaining, I chose to accept those challenges.
I believe every hardship carries wisdom. I believe every trial is part of Allah's plan for me to face, grow through, and become stronger because of it.
Today, years later, I understand what he meant.
Retirement is not simply about stopping work.
It is about having a life that still has purpose.
That’s my story today.
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