I was talking with my boss earlier today about money and the role it plays in happiness. I wasn’t hitting her up for more; the conversation was philosophical, not economical.
Money. People attach too much importance to it. This makes them do questionable things to get more of it. Robbing, embezzling, murder, voting Republican … stuff like that.
I used to worry about money.
Like most Americans, I was solidly middle class, stuck in that economic gray area between “well off” and “barely making it.”
Filthy rich people don’t worry about money. Neither do those who have none at all.
It’s the in-betweens that stress over a lack of greenbacks.
This no doubt seems self-evident to many of you, but it took me a few long, painful years to arrive at this revelation.
Six years ago, I had a nice house, a great job, a healthy 401K, a new truck, a beautiful wife and money enough that I never really had to think about it much. I wasn’t anything approaching well-off, but the bills got paid and there was a little extra in my wallet at the end of every month.
I felt secure. Which, it turns out, is a very foolish way to feel. None of us, ever, are secure. Not you, not me, not Donald Trump. Security is an illusion.
Anything can happen. Anything.
Like what?
Like my wife dumped me. A few months later, I was downsized from my job. My 401K dwindled to nothing as I funneled off my investments in an effort to hang onto the house. Eventually, it was gone. So was the house.
If my dog had died, I would have had the makings of a great country-western song.
By the time the dust settled, I was all but homeless. My worldly possessions now fit into a couple bicycle pannier bags.
Was I depressed? Yup. Suicidal? Daily.
I found work (of a sort) freelance writing for a couple online publications. I made just enough to feed myself.
It was the undisputed low point of my life.
Then one day, since I had nothing but time, I loaded what camping gear I still owned onto my bicycle and started riding.
I rode all that day and camped that night. The next day I did the same. And the next. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Miles disappeared beneath my tires.
I rode, I wrote, I slept. And little by little, even though I didn’t have a dime to my name, I got happy again. Happiness was there all along, it turned out, even without the nice house, the great job, the beautiful wife, the 401K.
Words can’t express how liberating that knowledge was.
My situation improved. I found a new job, a new girl, a new house. Now I’ve come full circle, back to where I began.
With one difference. My happiness is no longer dependent on money, possessions or even other people.
I’m free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.
As are all the things in life that really matter.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com
(616) 745-9530
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