Life After 40 Years in Practice

For most of my adult life, the calendar did not belong to me. It belonged to deadlines, to clients, and to the rhythm of tax season. If you spend long enough in public accounting, you begin to measure the year in filings, extensions, notices, and the short periods in between when you can finally exhale and look around.

Forty years in practice gives a person a front-row seat to how people really live. Not the polished version they present in public, but the one that shows up when something is due, something is missing, or something has gone sideways. Over time, you realize that the work is never just about forms and figures. It is also about worry, uncertainty, pressure, and the steady effort to bring some order to someone else’s chaos.

What forty years teaches you

At the beginning of a career, it is natural to think the work is mostly technical. Learn the law. Understand the forms. Reconcile the numbers. File accurately and on time. Those things matter, and they always will. But after enough years, you see that technical skill is only part of the equation. The deeper skill is judgment.

You learn that no two situations are truly alike, even when they appear identical at first glance. Two people can have similar income, similar deductions, even similar fact patterns, and still require very different advice. Behind every return is a life. Behind every deadline is a story. And behind every decision is a human being trying to make the best of circumstances that are rarely neat and tidy.

You also learn that clients do not usually come to you at their best. They come when they are behind, uncertain, overwhelmed, or carrying more than they expected to carry. Some need technical help. Some need reassurance. Some need both. Good practice, at its best, is not just about preparing returns or interpreting rules. It is about helping people think clearly when clear thinking does not come easily.

The illusion of control

Earlier in my career, I believed the goal was to keep everything lined up perfectly. Every number reconciled. Every scenario anticipated. Every possible result mapped out in advance. In a profession built around compliance and planning, that mindset makes sense. Preparation matters. Details matter. Discipline matters.

But if you stay in the work long enough, you eventually learn that control is often an illusion. For example, years ago, one of my employees (an EA) and I, were at the IRS office in Birmingham on an exam appointment. This particular case was a high-stakes audit and the IRS brought in a specialist from either Boston or Baltimore, I can't recall which at the moment.

Prior to our introduction to this specialist, the Group Manager made it abundantly clear that she was in control and exercising more than a little intimidation. When the specialist entered the room, I immediately called her by her first name and acted like she was a long-lost friend. When she asked, "have we met before?" I said, "Oh, surely you remember! We were backstage at a Lenny Kravitz concert some twenty years ago." There were perhaps six IRS employees in that conference room, counting the manager and the specialist, and you should have seen the looks (glances) the others were exchanging.

Do you remember a game called Telephone game? It’s a classic group game where:

• One person starts by whispering a sentence to the next person.
• Each person whispers what they think they heard to the next.
• By the time it reaches the last person, the message is usually hilariously distorted.
• Then you compare the final version to the original.

It’s often used to show how easily information can get miscommunicated—whether in fun settings or even in serious contexts like a visit to IRS headquarters. Within forty minutes my light-hearted humor had traversed the offices and within two hours it had morphed into a rumor that had taken on a life of its own. We concluded unexpectedly early that day, departed, and upon followup learned the specialist had been pulled from the case and returned to her regular assignment.

Tax law changes. Markets move. Health changes. Families change. Businesses rise, stall, reorganize, or close. The best planning in the world can still meet a hard turn in the road. What matters then is not whether everything went exactly according to plan. What matters is how well you adapt, how clearly you assess the moment, and whether you can help someone move forward without panic.

Experience matters, but judgment matters more. And judgment, more often than not, is formed by years of seeing how real life refuses to fit neatly inside a form.

A lesson that stayed with me

Years ago, while I was still at the University of Alabama in Huntsville, I took a horseback riding class because I needed two elective hours outside the School of Business. It sounded like a welcome break from accounting and case studies. Instead, it became one of the better life lessons I ever received.

I expected an easy elective. What I got was an old black mare named Betsy and several weeks of work before we ever rode at all. The class began with care, grooming, cleaning stalls, and learning to build trust. It was hot, messy, and not at all what I imagined when I signed up. But over time, something changed. I began to admire that horse. She was patient, proud, and far more perceptive than I had given her credit for.

When we finally hit the trail, Betsy came alive. Somewhere in the middle of that ride, I realized I was no longer trying to control every motion. I was simply with her. That lesson has stayed with me for decades. Sometimes the work is not about forcing control. Sometimes it is about understanding what you are working with, respecting it, and learning how to move together instead of against it.

What changes over time

These days, the pace is different. The schedule is more my own. The work I choose to take on is more intentional. After a long career, there is a natural shift from volume to selectivity. Not because the work has lost value, but because time itself becomes more valuable. You begin to care less about motion and more about meaning.

I find myself valuing clarity over complexity, perspective over urgency, and conversations over transactions. That does not mean the technical side matters less. It means the technical side is no longer the whole story. The deeper reward is helping people make sense of complicated moments and leave those moments with a little more confidence than they had when they arrived.

There is also something freeing about seeing a career in full. When you are in the middle of it, everything feels immediate. Deadlines dominate the horizon. Problems demand instant answers. But when you step back, you begin to see the larger pattern. You see the years of trust built slowly. You see the relationships that mattered. You see the steady accumulation of lessons that could only have been learned over time.

What still matters

After all these years, I still believe in the value of good advice given at the right time. It can prevent a mistake, create an opportunity, and sometimes provide something more important than either one: peace of mind. That has not changed.

What has changed is my understanding of the role itself. A long career is not just a collection of deadlines met and returns filed. It is a body of work. It is a record of moments when people needed help and trusted you enough to ask for it. There is meaning in that, especially once you have enough distance to see it clearly.

After forty years, I am still learning. Just not always from a textbook. Some lessons come from clients. Some come from life. And some arrive from unexpected places—like an old mare named Betsy who taught me that patience, humility, and trust often carry you farther than control ever could. Oh, by the way, we won that IRS Audit, 100%.

This essay builds on a lesson Greg also explored in an earlier piece about Betsy, the mare who turned a college elective into a lasting life lesson.