LXXIV. How to Handle Not Having Enough Money
Today, we’ll tap into Epicurean philosophy to help us tackle a tricky but critical issue: how to deal with not having enough money.
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“For the wise man does not consider himself unworthy of any gifts from Fortune’s hands: he does not love wealth but he would rather have it; he does not admit into his heart but into his home; and what wealth is his he does not reject but keeps, wishing it to supply greater scope for him to practice his virtue.” — Seneca
“If you don’t regard what you have as enough, you will never be happy even if you rule the entire world.” – Seneca
“The acquisition of riches has been for many men, not an end, but a change, of troubles.” — Epicurus
“At last, then, away with all these treacherous goods! They look better for those who hope for them than to those who have attained them.” — Seneca
"Wealth is the slave of a wise man; the master of a fool." — Seneca
“Accept prosperity with appreciation and moderation,” but…”persuade yourself that you can live happily without it as well as with it.” — Seneca
“Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.” — Epictetus
I've always wanted to live in a way that affords me cool, exciting experiences, convenience, good food, great health, without losing my happiness, manhood, or sanity to hedonism. I never wanted luxury to make me soft or entitled. But I also didn’t want to be an ascetic, blind to the beauty the world has to offer.
I wanted to carry the lessons poverty etched into me — gratitude, contentment with little, toughness, and resourcefulness, into abundance.
That’s why my favorite Stoic is Seneca. He was wealthy, but not enslaved by wealth. He advocated for the voluntary exposure to difficulties so that we may not fear misfortune. He walked a near-perfect line between philosophy, ambition, and enjoyment.
Today, we’ll borrow one of his favorite research tricks - tapping into Epicurean philosophy to help us tackle a tricky but critical issue: how to deal with not having enough money. For, as Stoics, we don’t have to agree with our rivals, but we can learn from them.
“I do not agree with Epicurus’ doctrines, but I do not hesitate to cite him when he speaks well.” — Seneca
Enter Epicurus…
Previously,
I. the illusion of wealth
We often suffer not from poverty, but from what we believe poverty prevents.
When money feels scarce, it's tempting to construct a private mythology of acquisitions—objects and experiences we assume will finally grant us peace. A waterfront mansion in Miami with floor-to-ceiling glass and private docks, where the sunlight filters through gauzy linen drapes onto Italian marble floors. A Gulfstream G650 with soft cashmere seats, a flight attendant trained at Le Cordon Bleu, and interiors wrapped in custom Hermès leather. A Wyoming ranch large enough to disappear into, complete with a heli-pad, trout stream, and fire pits that glow through the winter. A private art collection displayed under museum-grade lighting, Basquiat in the hall, Rothko above the stairs, Warhol in the powder room. A home theater that recreates an old Parisian cinema with crimson velvet curtains, Champagne service, and a concierge who selects films based on your mood. A personal chef preparing salmon roe, bone broth, and ceremonial-grade matcha, all tailored to your DNA.
These fantasies aren't merely extravagant; they are psychological in nature. They don't speak to greed so much as to longing - longing for admiration, for calm, for a feeling that life has at last been resolved. Each object stands in for a more abstract hope: that we'll be safe from worry, that we'll be surrounded by beauty, that we'll be taken seriously, and, perhaps most of all, that we'll finally be loved as we are.
Yet these symbols reveal something deeper about the way suffering distorts our diagnosis. Like the medieval patient with an unrelenting migraine who becomes convinced he needs a hole drilled into his skull to release the pressure, we attempt to solve spiritual or emotional ailments through material means. The pain is real. The proposed cure is catastrophic.
A person doesn't truly need a ranch, a private jet, or a sommelier-curated wine fridge. What they need is a sense of autonomy, presence, intimacy, or relief. But the ranch becomes a symbol of escape from demands; the jet, a stand-in for control and flexibility; the wine fridge, a placeholder for celebration and sensuality. The mistake isn't in desiring these things, but in assuming they are the root source of what we lack rather than mirrors reflecting something buried deeper.
Rarely does anyone confess, “I feel insignificant, and I long to matter.” Instead, they say, “I need to upgrade my apartment.” Few people articulate, “I'm ashamed of how little control I have over my life,” and instead pursue a car, a home, or a wardrobe meant to signal invulnerability. What we purchase is rarely what we need; it's often what we hope will make the need go away.
This is the first distortion poverty inflicts: it convinces us that money will remove our suffering, when often it only changes the scenery in which the suffering continues.
Until we learn to sit with the pain, name it properly, and investigate its shape, we'll remain at the mercy of seductive but mistaken solutions. The mansion will be purchased, the jet flown, the wine poured, and the hunger will always return.
II. epicurus on rational pleasure
“I don’t know how I shall conceive of the good…if I take away the pleasures of taste, if I take away sexual pleasure, if I take away the pleasure of hearing, and if I take away the sweet emotions that are caused by the sight of beautiful forms.” — Epicurus
Among the figures of philosophy, Epicurus is easy to misjudge. His name, still echoing in the menus of fine restaurants and the mastheads of glossy lifestyle magazines, has been appropriated by those who assume his vision of pleasure was synonymous with indulgence. But the truth is more precise, more counterintuitive, and, for anyone anxious about money, more useful than almost any modern wellness philosophy.
Epicurus was born in 341 BC on the island of Samos, a place of sea winds, fig trees, and scattered temples. He studied under Platonists and atomists, absorbing ideas from both but ultimately rejecting their core tenets. By the time he reached his thirties, he had begun to compose his own philosophy—one not built around logic-chopping or metaphysical speculation, but around a singular question: What makes life truly pleasurable? His answer was as bold as it was humane…
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