#17 | What If We’re Using the Wrong Currency?
Somewhere along the way, we quietly agreed on something without ever questioning it: that money is the scorecard of a successful life.
More money means more freedom.
More possessions mean more happiness.
And if we don’t have enough of either, we assume something must be missing in us.
But what if we’ve been measuring the wrong thing?
What if money was never meant to be the currency of a meaningful life—and joy was?
When asked how many movie stars they know who are truly happy, the answer is surprisingly small. One or two handful . Sometimes fewer. These are people with mansions, private jets, global recognition, and financial security beyond what most of us can imagine. And yet, many of them struggle deeply.
At the same time, you can walk past someone with almost nothing and see moments of genuine laughter, connection, and presence.
This isn’t to romanticize hardship or criticize success. It’s simply to point out an uncomfortable truth: possessions and joy do not move in a straight line together.
Think back to school days. Most of us owned very little. A few clothes, maybe a bike, some books, and whatever fit into a backpack. And yet, many of our richest memories come from that time. Friendships that felt effortless. Laughter that came easily. Entire afternoons lost in imagination, conversation, or play.
Why did joy feel more accessible then?
Because we weren’t constantly told that something was missing.
Modern marketing is brilliant—and ruthless. Its job is not to make us happy, but to make us dissatisfied just enough to buy. If you don’t have this car, this watch, this body, this lifestyle, then happiness is just one purchase away. And companies are trapped in the same loop: if they don’t participate in this message, they fall behind.
So the machine keeps running. And our minds, wired for comparison, keep absorbing the message.
The irony is staggering when you step back.
An emperor centuries ago, with twelve horses and a chariot, possessed what was considered unimaginable wealth and power. Today, many of us sit alone in cars with two hundred horsepower, air conditioning, heated seats, satellite navigation, and safety features that emperors could never have dreamed of. What once took hours or days now takes minutes.
And yet, when the light turns green and the car ahead doesn’t move instantly, we honk.
In our dream car.
Late for nothing we can truly take with us.
Our bodies are worth more than a trillion dollars. Strip a luxury car down to raw materials, and it’s only worth a few thousand dollars. Everything else—the value, is layered on by marketing, engineering, labor etc.
If we allowed ourselves to sit quietly with this for a moment, many of us would realize something unsettling and freeing at the same time: we are just as capable of joy around a campfire as we are on a ten-million-dollar yacht.
This doesn’t mean possessions are wrong. Comfort isn’t the enemy. Beauty isn’t the enemy. Enjoying what we create and acquire is part of being human.
The problem begins when possessions become identity.
There’s an old philosophical exchange that captures this perfectly. A philosopher once said, “I can dine with kings one day and sleep on a pillow of straw the next—and be equally joyful.” A student challenged him: “Yes, but you have many possessions.” The philosopher replied, “I do. But if I had nothing, that would change nothing about how I feel.”
That is freedom.
Joy that depends on circumstances is fragile. Joy that comes from presence, meaning, connection, and inner alignment is remarkably resilient.
What if we started asking different questions?
Not “How much is this worth?” but “How much joy does this bring?”
Not “How does this make me look?” but “How does this make me feel when no one is watching?”
Not “What do I need next?” but “What is already enough?”
Money is a useful tool. It can buy comfort, opportunity, and time. But it was never meant to be the measure of a life well lived.
Joy was.
And unlike money, joy multiplies when shared, costs nothing to carry, and can’t be taken away when circumstances change.
Perhaps the real wealth we’re all seeking isn’t something we need to earn—but something we need to remember.