"I Tried Living Like a Billionaire for a Week — Here's the Harsh Truth"

I’ll be honest—this started out as a joke.

One night, somewhere between scrolling through reels of billionaire morning routines and watching a guy drink sparkling water from a diamond-studded goblet, I said to myself, “What if I just… lived like that? For a week?”

It was ridiculous. I’m not rich. I’m not even middle-class-on-a-good-day. But I had a credit card, access to Instagram, and a dangerous curiosity.

So, I set the goal: One week of living like a billionaire. Not just acting wealthy—but mimicking the elite. The cars, the food, the routines, the aesthetics. I wanted to see what it felt like to have everything. Or at least fake it convincingly.

Spoiler: I did.

Spoiler #2: I hated most of it.

Day 1: The Car That Owned Me

The first move was obvious: rent a car that screams wealth. I chose a matte black Lamborghini Huracán. It cost me $1,250 for a single day. Driving it felt like flying a spaceship—until I hit traffic and realized I had no idea how to actually handle the car in the real world.

People stared. Some even filmed. I felt like a celebrity—until I had to parallel park it on a busy street. My hands were shaking. The fear of scratching that car was more intense than any anxiety attack I’d ever had.

Wealth, I realized, doesn't just show off. It carries pressure. It demands perfection.

Day 2: The "Perfect" Morning

If Instagram billionaires were to be believed, success started with 5 a.m. mornings, cold plunges, journaling, and green juice. So I did it all.

I woke up at 4:50 a.m. (with three alarms), stumbled into a freezing shower for 60 seconds, and scribbled affirmations in a journal: “I am limitless. I attract abundance.”

Then I drank celery juice that tasted like punishment and did breathwork that gave me a headache.

By 9 a.m., I was more exhausted than I’d ever been in my life.

That’s when it hit me: these routines weren’t about peace. They were about control. Billionaire life isn’t relaxed—it’s optimized. Every minute accounted for. Every breath, strategized. And I was already over it.

Day 3: Dining With the Elite

I booked a solo dinner at the most exclusive restaurant in my city. It took me three tries and a white lie about being an “investor” to get the reservation.

The food came in tiny portions with fancy names. There was caviar, truffle foam, edible flowers, and a $300 wine pairing I couldn’t pronounce.

The waiter described each course like it was a TED Talk. I nodded politely. Meanwhile, I was starving.

Don’t get me wrong—it was delicious. But it wasn’t satisfying. I left with an empty stomach and a $512 bill. I stopped at a taco truck on the way home.

It was the best thing I ate all week.

Day 4–5: The Instagram Illusion

I dedicated these two days to crafting the illusion. Designer clothes (rented), fancy hotel lobbies, rooftop selfies, lattes in marble cafés. I took photos of luxury I didn’t own and scheduled them for my stories with strategic captions like:

“Work hard in silence, let success make the noise.”

“Manifesting my millions ✨.”

The likes rolled in. DMs from people I hadn’t spoken to in years. “Wow, you’re doing amazing!”

“Living the dream!”

One person even asked me to coach them on "branding for lifestyle success."

All I could think was: If only they knew I’m eating cup noodles in a $500 robe I have to return tomorrow.

That’s the scary part. People don’t want truth—they want the version of you that reflects what they crave.

Day 6: The Loneliness of Luxury

I checked into a five-star hotel. Room service. Skyline view. A bed so big I lost my phone in it.

It should’ve been perfect. But once I closed the blackout curtains and muted the TV, all I heard was silence.

I hadn’t spoken to anyone authentically in days. Every interaction was performative—waiters, concierges, influencers replying to posts. No real connections. No real warmth.

Luxury, I realized, can isolate you. It creates distance. From others, and from yourself.

I laid in the middle of that plush bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what this was all for.

Day 7: Coming Back to Earth

On the final day, I didn’t pretend. I wore my usual jeans. Drank corner-store coffee. Sat in the park and watched a father teach his daughter how to ride a bike.

And for the first time all week, I felt joy. Real joy. The kind that doesn’t cost anything. No filters. No pressure. Just life, unfolding.

I realized something profound: I never needed to feel rich—I just needed to feel real.

The Harsh Truth

Living like a billionaire wasn’t glamorous. It was exhausting. Lonely. Hollow.

Everything was curated for the appearance of joy, not the experience of it.

I thought wealth was the answer to happiness. But the truth is, you can’t buy peace. You can only choose it.

I don’t regret trying this experiment—it showed me what matters.

Not money. Not gold-plated desserts.

But mornings that don’t start with pressure. Conversations that don’t end with likes. Food that fills your soul, not your feed.

If that’s “poor,” I’ll take it.