Money, Honestly
It has never been easy to write about money — not for me, not for anyone I know, not even for economists. And yet here I am, attempting it anyway. I want to reflect, as sincerely and as courageously as I can manage, on what money means to me now, and on the quiet, persistent ways it has shaped my sense of what is possible. In truth, my relationship to money has not changed all that dramatically over the years; it has merely become more articulate, more aware of its own shadows.
Long ago, I decided I had no desire to deliberately pursue great wealth, nor would I allow myself to feel envy over anyone else’s possessions. This never meant that I was blind to how essential money is — how it buys stability, medicine, education, a life with fewer sharp edges. I’ve always understood that. But even as a child, I sensed that beyond a certain level, more money does not bring more happiness; it only amplifies whatever is already there. That instinct didn’t come from nowhere — it was shaped by the world I grew up in.
And I grew up comfortable: two big houses, several bedrooms of my own, even a tennis court. And like many children who grow up comfortable, I flinched when someone called me rich, then tried to explain it away with elaborate justifications. I thought that denying comfort would make me seem more relatable.
Yet, even though we always had more than enough for the daily necessities, our home was never the embodiment of financial tranquillity. Quite the opposite: The more wealth my parents managed to accumulate, the more sharply they felt what they believed they were still lacking. It was as if every new achievement illuminated another rung on a ladder they were determined to climb — a ladder assembled out of anxiety, polished by ambition, and stretching so high it seemed to disappear into the clouds. Their prosperity never softened their restlessness; it only refined it.
My grandfather was completely different. He was the sort of person who found purpose in his work in the fields and in the time the two of us spent together, but never in material things. His sense of fulfilment came from rhythm, routine, and relationships. And so, very early on, I realised that it was his philosophy I preferred: a way of living that felt grounded and sane, unlike my parents’ everlasting treasure hunt that never seemed to bring them true satisfaction.
More than that, despite being financially stable, we were not a happy family. The bedrooms weren’t just a sign of comfort; they were a form of control. One of them was deliberately kept bare — no television, no computer — so I couldn’t spend the night with technology. (A rule that would have made more sense if I hadn’t spent most evenings reading.) And the tennis court, which should have been a symbol of privilege, was my private nightmare. It meant playing tennis many hours per day, carrying the weight of expectations, and feeling worse each time I lost to someone who didn’t have their own tennis court, which was, of course, everyone in Serbia at local competitions among ten‑year‑olds.
Looking back, I realise that money shaped my childhood not through luxury but through contradiction. It gave me comfort while taking away ease, offered abundance while tightening control, and created a world where privilege and pressure slept in the same bed. That is why my relationship with money today is neither romantic nor resentful — it is simply honest. I know what money can provide, and I know what it can never fix, no matter how much hope we attach to it.
What I understand now — and what I try to practice every day — is a way of living in which money is a tool rather than a measure, a source of possibility rather than anxiety. I stay close to my grandfather’s philosophy: Meaning comes from how we live, not from what we accumulate. If money has taught me anything, it is that a portion of it is indispensable, but it can never serve as the scaffolding of happiness or the foundation of belonging.
