If money were a person, I think I’d still let them in—
but I’d keep one eye on the door.
I’d still shake their hand.
Still say thank you.
Still acknowledge the role they’ve played in helping me build, move, provide.
But I’d also ask them to sit down.
And for once—just listen.
Because somewhere along the way, they stopped being a guest.
They started deciding what mattered.
They started speaking on my behalf.
Sometimes they even told me who I was.
I’ve worked for money.
I’ve chased it, sacrificed for it, swallowed my voice for it.
I’ve watched others bow to it.
Watched systems bend toward it.
Watched lives collapse without it.
I remember the first-time money whispered its plans for me—
a glossy chart on a folding table,
courses ranked like rungs on a ladder.
I didn’t pick a passion.
I picked a number.
Now, I watch as schools quietly prepare our children to serve this person too.
We ask kids what they want to be,
then measure the worth of their answers against earning potential.
We label subjects as “core” based on market demand.
We reward speed, scores, and status—then call it preparation for the real world.
It’s not the teachers.
It’s the system—built on a whisper that says:
“You matter if you succeed. And you succeed if you can earn.”
So the relationship begins early—
not with curiosity, or creativity,
but with comparison.
And a quiet fear:
Will I be enough if I don’t make enough?
I’ve seen how money rewards the loudest, not always the truest.
How it favors speed over care, output over presence.
How it’s become the great translator of value—even when the language it speaks is hollow.
And yet, I don’t hate money.
I don’t even resent it.
I just wish we remembered what it’s for.
Because if money were a person, I’d keep them around—as long as they helped refine my life.
But the moment they tried to define it, I’d embrace their time with me, and let them go.
I’d thank them for what they gave me—
and walk barefoot into a life of my own design.