Recommendation letter

By Shin Freedman

Applying for a teaching fellowship more than two years after retiring was a thought-provoking experience. It required me to navigate a process I had previously facilitated for countless students, yet now from a reversed perspective. The experience offered both moments of reflection and lessons in humility.

Since retiring two and a half years ago, I’ve occasionally returned to my former institution, enjoying lunches at the faculty dining club. Delightfully, I’ve been able to sit at familiar tables and resume conversations with former colleagues. These moments of camaraderie often spark the inevitable question: “What is life like as a retiree?” My usual response is a vague recounting of daily routines — a mix of ups and downs. Yet, deep down, I sometimes feel invisible and forgotten by the very community I once belonged to so deeply.

Throughout my career, I wrote numerous recommendation letters for students applying to graduate programs, transferring to different institutions or seeking jobs. These letters were often a pleasure to write, particularly when I knew the student well, and I took great joy in hearing about their successes. Now, as a retiree seeking recommendation letters for myself, I find myself in the reversed role — a vulnerable position that underscores the challenges of maintaining professional connections after retirement.

Many of my former colleagues and students have moved on — either retired or relocated — making it challenging to find suitable individuals to support my fellowship application. I hesitated to ask for help, questioning why a retiree would still pursue professional endeavors. Nevertheless, I decided to persevere.

Each spring, my institution hosts an emeriti luncheon, providing an opportunity to reconnect with former colleagues and learn about university updates — from trends in college enrollment to institutional goals. During this event, I approached the new university president, whom I had not worked with directly. At the luncheon’s conclusion, I cordially asked if she might write a recommendation letter for my fellowship application. Following up, I sent her detailed materials: my CV, the fellowship project statement and other relevant documents. Then, I waited. Weeks turned into months.

Eventually, I inquired about the letter’s status. The president’s reply was polite but curt: she felt unable to write the letter due to not knowing me well enough. While I understood her position, I was disheartened by the delay in her response. It left me questioning whether I had “barked up the wrong tree.”

Determined, I turned to my former provost, someone who had evaluated my academic work during his tenure. To my relief, he graciously agreed. Nearing the application deadline, I followed up with him, and he promptly fulfilled his promise. He even shared a copy of the letter with me.

Reading his recommendation was a humbling experience. The provost’s letter highlighted aspects of my career and character that I had perhaps overlooked. His recognition of my contributions and encouragement of my postretirement aspirations felt deeply validating. It was a powerful reminder that sometimes others see our worth more clearly than we do ourselves.

This journey taught me the value of perseverance and the importance of fostering lasting professional relationships. Retirement may shift one’s role in the academic community, but it does not diminish the impact of a career well-lived or the potential to contribute meaningfully in new ways.

Shin Freedman ([email protected]) is an author, a writer and an educator.