An American who reaches 65 today can expect, on average, to live roughly another 18 to 20 years. The average German born in 1889 — the year the modern state pension was born — was around 40. The retirement age? 70. 

The modern idea — that there is a fixed age at which work ends, and the state, or a former employer, picks up the cost of the remaining decades — was handed down by an aging Chancellor with a political problem.

A note before we go on: this is historical and cultural commentary, not financial advice. We are not financial advisors, and nothing here is a recommendation about your own retirement timing or planning. For that, talk to a qualified professional who knows your situation.

The original design

Before this, “retirement” as a stage of life was not really a thing for working people. Older workers carried on until illness or accident stopped them, and then leaned on family, charity, or the parish poor relief. 

The policy passed the Reichstag in 1889, making Germany the first country in the world to run a state old-age pension. The idea had been floated eight years earlier in a letter from Kaiser Wilhelm I to the German parliament, written at Otto von Bismarck‘s urging, arguing that workers worn out by age had a legitimate claim on the state.

Bismarck’s motives were probably not sentimental. Marx had died six years earlier, socialist parties were gaining ground across industrial Europe, and the Chancellor probably wanted to outflank them by offering workers material reassurance from the imperial state itself. The pension was statecraft, not generosity. When critics accused him of socialism for the program, he replied: “Call it socialism or whatever you like. It is the same to me.”

The number on the ledger was 70. The crucial detail, the one history keeps glossing over, is the demographic backdrop. Average life expectancy at birth in Germany at the time sat around 40. High infant and child mortality likely pulled that figure down, and a worker who survived to 40 would on average live a good deal longer. But still — setting eligibility at 70 in a population where many people never reached old age meant the promise was far narrower in practice than it looked on paper

Bismarck himself was 74 when the law passed. He died nine years later at 83, having outlived his own threshold by more than a decade.

How did we get to the magic 65?

Two things shifted, slowly, over the next century.

Germany had started with 70, then lowered the threshold to 65 in 1916, making the pension reachable for a wider share of older workers.

The second shift was life expectancy. By the time the United States built its own Social Security system in 1935, life expectancy had risen dramatically from Bismarck’s era. In the U.S., life expectancy at birth in 1930 was 58 for men and 62 for women. 

65 stuck. Other industrial economies — Britain, Canada, much of Europe — followed the broad template, sometimes with their own actuarial twists, mostly by default. And quietly, with no one really redesigning anything, the idea that 65 marks the end of working life became part of how an ordinary adult plans a life.

What we inherited

The original Bismarck design assumed retirement was a brief reward at the end. A worker paid in for thirty years, drew a pension for a few, and the state’s outlay was bounded by how short later life actually was in 1889.

Current American actuarial tables tell a different story. A 65-year-old today, on average, is looking at roughly another two decades. Many of those years will be healthy, active ones. A retirement that was designed as a brief few years is now a stretch of life almost as long as childhood and adolescence combined.

None of this is an argument that the retirement age should simply be pushed upward. People who have worked for forty years or more deserve rest, dignity, and time that is finally their own.

But isn’t it interesting that we are running a 1935 administrative number through a 2026 demographic reality.