I grew up poor enough to know what government cheese tasted like.
Powdered milk too.
Those were not stories we told about hardship. They were groceries.
They were what helped get a family from one part of the month to the other.
When you grow up like that, the good life can take on a particular shape in your imagination.
It gets bigger than necessary.
A giant house.
Luxury cars.
Vacations in places you have never seen.
A refrigerator full of food, so nobody has to worry about running out.
Bills paid before they are due.
Maybe even the kind of life we used to see on television.
When the electricity was on.
The houses looked enormous.
The kitchens looked spotless.
Nobody seemed to worry about the light bill.
Nobody opened a refrigerator and stood there doing arithmetic.
Nobody looked at the last few slices of bread and wondered how many people still needed to eat.
On television, there always seemed to be enough.
More than enough.
As a child, I thought that was the good life.
Maybe that made sense.
When you don’t have much, abundance looks a lot like happiness.
You imagine that if you can just get far enough away from what you knew, everything will finally feel safe.
A bigger house will do it.
A nicer car.
More money.
A vacation where nobody has to count every dollar before ordering dinner.
I don’t judge the younger version of myself for wanting those things.
He was trying to imagine security with the only language he had been given.
Money.
Space.
Possessions.
Distance.
The farther you could get from government cheese and powdered milk, the better you must be doing.
But getting older has a way of changing definitions.
Sometimes you simply wake up one day and realize you are no longer chasing the things you once thought would prove you had made it.
I don’t live in a giant house.
I live in a nice apartment.
And I like it.
I have an SUV that I love, and unless somebody takes the keys away from me one day, I plan to keep it forever.
It gets me where I need to go.
It is comfortable.
It is mine.
I have a small group of close friends.
Not a crowd.
Not a room full of people.
Just a few of the best friends I have ever known.
People I trust.
People I can laugh with.
People who know enough about me to understand when I am talking and when I am avoiding what I really mean.
There was a time when I might have looked at this life and thought it was smaller than what I wanted.
Now I wonder if I was measuring with the wrong ruler.
Maybe the good life is smaller than we think.
Not smaller in value.
Smaller in scale.
Maybe it does not require a mansion.
Maybe it requires a place where you feel at peace when you close the door.
Maybe it doesn’t require a luxury car.
Maybe it requires something reliable that takes you home.
Maybe it does not require being surrounded by people.
Maybe it requires a few who would notice if you disappeared.
Maybe it does not require eating in expensive restaurants.
Maybe sometimes it is knowing there is enough food in the refrigerator and not having to worry about what will be left next week.
There are things you notice differently when you grew up without enough.
A full pantry can feel like wealth.
A paid electric bill can feel like wealth.
Being able to turn on the air conditioning without fear can feel like wealth.
Buying something at the grocery store because you want it, instead of because it is the cheapest option, can feel like wealth.
Going home to a place you actually enjoy living can feel like wealth.
Having someone call and ask how you are, and knowing they really want the answer, can feel like wealth.
None of these things photograph especially well.
That may be part of the problem.
We live in a world that is very good at showing us what success is supposed to look like.
But somewhere along the way, we can begin confusing a life that looks impressive with a life that feels good to live.
Those are not always the same thing.
You can own a large house and dread going home.
You can sit in an expensive car and feel completely alone.
You can stand on a beach halfway around the world and still carry every worry you packed with you.
Money can solve many problems.
I would never pretend otherwise.
People who have lived without enough usually understand that better than anybody.
Enough matters.
Maybe more than excess.
There is a particular peace in enough.
Enough food.
Enough money to breathe.
Enough space.
Enough people who love you.
Enough time to sit still for a while.
Enough confidence in yourself that you no longer need everything you own to explain your worth to somebody else.
That kind of enough does not make much noise.
It doesn’t need to.
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