Money Is Only a Tool. It Will Take You Wherever You Wish. But It Will Not Replace You as the Driver.

When I was a teenager, I believed money was the answer to everything. I wasn’t greedy—I just thought having enough of it meant you wouldn’t suffer. That belief drove me through years of study, sleepless nights, and a brutal climb through the ranks of corporate life. I saw people around me burn out, give up, or lose themselves. I told myself I was different because I had a destination in mind: success.

At twenty-eight, I had the six-figure job, the downtown apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, and a car I once used to dream about while riding the city bus. My credit score was immaculate. My wardrobe was polished. I even had savings, investments, a travel fund. I had everything I’d worked for.

Except direction.

I realized this on a random Tuesday, while stuck in traffic, staring at the sea of brake lights ahead. My hands were on the steering wheel, but my mind was spinning. I asked myself a question that hadn’t occurred to me in years: Where are you going?

Not just physically, not just from home to work or work to gym. But in life.

My days were scripted—wake up, work, gym, dinner, emails, sleep, repeat. I’d convinced myself that routine was purpose. But that day, with the city frozen in a traffic jam, I had an unsettling realization: I had become excellent at moving without direction.

That night, I sat on my expensive leather couch in my high-rise apartment, and looked around. Everything I had was bought with money. Yet none of it felt like mine. Not really. It was like furnishing a life I wasn’t truly living.

Money had taken me places, sure. It gave me access. It opened doors. It put me on planes and in meetings. But it hadn’t given me meaning. I was the one supposed to drive that part—and I hadn’t.

I began to notice the emptiness more clearly after that. I started asking myself tough questions. What did I love? What brought me peace? What made me feel alive? The more I searched, the more I realized how little time I’d spent getting to know myself outside of work.

I wasn’t unhappy—I was unanchored. I had built a vehicle of success, but I hadn’t chosen a destination of fulfillment.

One Saturday, I did something spontaneous: I signed up for a weekend workshop on storytelling and journaling. It was totally outside my world. Everyone there was different—freelancers, artists, a retired schoolteacher, even a barista. I didn’t tell them what I did for a living. I just wrote. I listened. I shared.

That weekend changed something in me.

I remembered that as a kid, I used to love writing. I used to invent worlds and characters. But at some point, I told myself it wasn’t “practical.” That it wouldn’t lead to money. So I buried it. That weekend, I unearthed it again.

Writing didn’t pay my bills. But it fed something deeper.

Over the next year, I began to rebalance. I didn’t quit my job or renounce capitalism. I still appreciated what money could do—it allowed me freedom, access to experiences, support for loved ones. But I stopped letting it steer.

I downsized my apartment. I started freelancing part-time so I could pursue creative projects. I budgeted, not for more things, but for more time. Time to explore, time to create, time to be still.

Most people didn’t understand. Some thought I was having a crisis. Maybe I was. But not all crises are collapses—some are awakenings.

Today, I still earn. I still invest. But I also write. I volunteer. I read more books and have fewer possessions. I spend less, but live more.

Money is still my tool. But I am the driver.

And I’ve learned something essential: You can chase money your whole life and still feel lost. But if you find your why, if you take the wheel with intention, money becomes the fuel—not the map, not the destination, and certainly not the driver.

It took me almost a decade to realize that. But the journey was worth it.

Because now, I’m not just moving—I’m going somewhere that matters.