Money is Strength

This is a personal article, nothing really to do with tech or business. It probably doesn't go where you think it will.

Four days ago, on Sunday, our cat Honey Bee, one of the brightest lights of my life, had an accident on the couch. A bit concerning, but not panic-inducing, right? The next morning, she did it again. She already had some ongoing issues, so we called up the vet and took her to them on their recommendation. Thus began the saga of the past three days.

A senior blood panel (she's about 10 and a half years old) showed drastically high kidney values. So high that the vet recommended we take her to the 24/7 vet hospital for overnight treatment immediately.

Long story short: almost exactly three days later, an overnight stay at the pet hospital, lots of fluids, and many blood tests later, she's home. Her values are still a bit elevated, but she's eating and drinking normally, not lethargic, and overall acting quite healthy.

It's a relief that she's finally through all of that treatment and stress, and a joy to see her back in our home, comfortable again.

I'm also down almost $5,000.

But that's fine.

I really don't mind it too much. Does it hurt? Sure. But I'd like to contrast this with my second highest single expense over the past two years: our ~$4,000 trip to Cancún in November of 2025.

I remember being so hesitant to spend that much. It was more or less a gift to my partner, but of course, I wanted it too, and had significant say over what it was. (For example, I was dead-set on all-inclusive; she was dead-set on a no-children resort. She was totally right to be.) That amount hurt to spend.

But that $3,500 deposit at the emergency pet hospital? No brainer. I signed that thing as soon as I understood the treatment plan. The two $500 visits to give her blood tests and exams before and after? Whatever. Does it hurt? Well, yeah, I'm writing this in part to cope, aren't I?

It hurts so much less than the vacation, though. And of course, part of that is that I'm not a rotten-hearted person, and I want the best for my loved ones. And not only does it hurt less, but I am more financially proud of this expense.

It's my kind of flex.

Lots of financially successful people (and LARPers) love to flaunt displays of their wealth: boats, yellow Lamborghinis, lavish vacations, and the like. I assume they do this because they like looking impressive and showing it off, even if it's not their normal deal, because it feels good; they're proud of it. And there's nothing wrong with that, so long as it's not taken to a fault.

I tried to feel this way about our trip to Cancún, but I just couldn't. To this day, I don't really talk about it like that. It was a great time, but I don't quite enjoy flaunting it, and I don't think I'd flaunt any similar display of wealth much. (Check back with me once I've got a yellow Lamborghini. Metaphorically speaking.)

But this saga with Bee? This is the kind of thing I'll point to if I ever want to display my "wealth". It's my flex. This is my yellow Lamborghini. Not because I don't have one and I'd "rather" be flexing that—I think this sort of thing is way more indicative of the strength that money gives.

I really don't have yellow Lambo money, though.

I'm not rich, but I've lived well below my means for the past decade or so. In late 2019, I was down to my last few bucks, genuinely; I had less than $100 in my bank account in February 2020 when I got my first full-time office job.

Since then, I've had a bunch of great engineering jobs, and I've done well enough to:

• Quit my last job without another lined up.
• Actually relax for months now, in lieu of huge AI companies trying to make me believe I'd never work again.
• Spend both the money and the time to get my beloved cat back to health.

If I still had that job, I'd be stressed out of my mind. I already was without anything external going on. With all this on top of it, I'd be spinning. I'd be a worse partner. I'd be a bad friend. I'd probably have been mean to all the wonderful support staff that helped us along the way.¹

That's strength!

When I say "strength", I really mean it in the way that (and I regret to bring him up, sorry in advance!) Jordan Peterson meant it when he described being "the strongest person at your father's funeral." It's not flaunting; it's not some overt display; it's not having so much that you're bragging about how much you can throw away.

It makes me feel strong to be able to get hit with a killer sucker punch from life, and not even lose my footing.

I guess it's like a reactive, "negative" behavior: I'll sit around and do nothing, and nothing life can throw at me will break me. Rather than a proactive, "positive" behavior: I'm going to go do this thing because most people can't.

The former is the kind of strength that I can finally look myself in the mirror and say that I have. I'm not an ultra-coward, nor am I fragile. Life threw a curveball at us, and between coordinating care between the emergency pet hospital's vets and our regular-care ones on short sleep and not a lot of food, I stood my ground. And for that, I'm rewarded with the health of my girl.

Pride's a sin, but I'm fine with it for now.

I won't dwell on this much longer than this post if I can help it, but I am deeply proud of myself for withstanding this storm. Larger ones have hit me and my family before, that completely knocked over everyone involved, including me.

To be hit this time with something much different in degree but similar in kind, and yet left standing with joy and gratitude instead of panic and bitterness is an absolute gift.

Of course, money isn't the only factor. There are a lot of things involved here that aren't a part of this post. I've done a ton of personal recovery and growth that kept me up through this. But no matter how strong I am personally, I couldn't have simply by way of my own health convinced everyone involved to just help my girl for free. At the end of the day, money was the sufficient condition.

Money paid for the treatments. It paid for the gas getting us back and forth everywhere. It paid for the medication that we've taken home to continue her care, comfy at home. It paid for the ability for me to not be shackled to a desk this whole time. It paid for the headspace to handle all this. It paid for that breathing room to make sure my partner was in it with me the whole way (thank God for her). And if this was six years ago, I just wouldn't have had it. And maybe I would've lost a light of my life.

And as we should know by now...

"Havin money's not everything, not havin it is" — Kanye West on Good Life