I loved it from the start. Whole days of not having a ticking clock hanging over my head. Proper meals at normal times. Able to move around as I pleased. Time for marathon training for the first time in years. My sleep improved and my IBS and afternoon migraines melted away. I still did a bit of freelance work two or three short days a week and that was OK, but my "retired days" were my favourite. I particularly cherished my "home alone" time when my husband was at work. He's not difficult to be around, but I hadn't had home alone time in my own house for many years.
Don't read on.
After a few months the freelance work crept up, first supposedly temporarily (maternity cover, one-off emergencies) although I was ruthless about only doing one job role in one location. Having always worked, and knowing my next paycheck might be my last and with my DB pension still waiting finalisation, it was too tempting to earn a little more, keep feeding my private pension, save for a really good vacation, plan some big adventures after my husband had quit his part time job which he still enjoyed, buy a new gadget or two.
12 months post-FIRE, the point at which I'd expected to be rested and recovered enough to take on some community commitments, I was working 30-36 hours a week, including some weekend days, plus commuting, and we'd had the curveball of my frail but mobile FiL moving in with us so I'm never home alone. And that's where I'm at.