Between Rich Dad and Real Life

I was twenty-two when the book found me, or when I found it—depending on how destiny prefers to be credited. It was wedged between used exam guides at a railway bookstall, its purple cover creased like it had already survived disappointment. Rich Dad Poor Dad. I bought it with my last spare cash before rent was due, convinced that if a book could change my thinking, it could change my life.

The author spoke with certainty, the kind that feels like truth when you are young and tired of being afraid. He said school lied. Jobs were traps. Savings were cowardice. Assets were freedom.

My father—my real father—worked thirty years as a clerk. He ironed his shirts every Sunday night and kept his certificates in a folder that smelled faintly of plastic and dust. He believed in pensions, promotions, and patience. According to the book, he was a poor dad. Not because he lacked money—though he did—but because he lacked vision.

I didn’t argue with my father when I read the book. I simply stopped listening.

Within a month, I quit studying for government exams. Within three, I turned down a stable job offer because it “paid too little and demanded too much time.” I wasn’t lazy, I told myself. I was enlightened.

I started saying words like cash flow, leverage, financial intelligence. I watched YouTube videos where men in fitted suits stood in front of rented Lamborghinis explaining how fear was the only enemy. They all sounded like the book. Or maybe the book sounded like them. It didn’t matter. I believed.

My first “asset” was a small online business selling imported phone accessories. I didn’t understand logistics, customer acquisition, or returns, but I understood mindset. When the business failed after six months, I didn’t call it a loss. I called it tuition.

Tuition is easy to romanticize when you don’t yet know how expensive it can be.

By twenty-five, I had failed at three businesses. Each time, I doubled down. Each time, I blamed myself—not the market, not bad timing, not undercapitalization. The book had taught me that failure was feedback, and so I fed on it, starving quietly while telling everyone I was learning.

Friends from university moved on. One bought a car. Another got married. They complained about work, but they paid rent without flinching. I told myself they were still in the rat race. Secretly, I envied their predictability.

Then came real estate.

The book spoke of property like it was alchemy—turning debt into gold if you were clever enough. I had no capital, but I had courage. I borrowed from family, maxed out credit cards, and partnered with a man I barely knew but trusted because he spoke confidently about “value-add opportunities.”

The deal collapsed within a year. Legal issues. Bad tenants. Repairs I hadn’t budgeted for. The asset bled money monthly, like a wound that refused to clot.

I stopped sleeping well. I started calculating expenses in my head while brushing my teeth. Rent was due every month, whether I had assets or not. Motivation quotes didn’t help when the landlord called.

When I finally told my father about the debt, he didn’t say I told you so. He just listened. Then he said something the book never mentioned.

“You took risks like someone who could afford to fail.”

I wanted to argue. Instead, I cried.

That was the first crack in the doctrine.

I began to notice patterns I had ignored before. The people preaching freedom often made their money selling courses, not owning businesses. The success stories skipped the starting advantages—family money, connections, safety nets. Risk, I realized, was not the same for everyone. For some, failure meant learning. For others, it meant homelessness.

The book wasn’t wrong. But it wasn’t whole.

Assets mattered—but so did income. Mindset mattered—but so did math. Entrepreneurship wasn’t rebellion; it was responsibility multiplied.

I took a job at twenty-eight. A boring one. Salary. Fixed hours. Benefits. I felt like a traitor to my younger self. But the job gave me something I hadn’t had in years: oxygen. With steady income, my mistakes didn’t threaten survival. I could think again.

Slowly, carefully, I rebuilt.

I saved. I invested modestly. I learned skills before risking money. I stopped glorifying struggle and started respecting stability. My assets grew—not dramatically, not Instagram-worthy—but consistently.

One evening, I found the old book while cleaning. The cover was more worn now. I didn’t hate it. I didn’t worship it either.

I understood it at last.

Rich Dad Poor Dad wasn’t a map. It was a spark. Dangerous without context. Powerful without instructions. It taught people to question—but not how to land safely after the jump.

Some readers flew. Many fell. Most blamed themselves.

I visited my father the following weekend. He was older now, slower, but still ironing his shirts. His pension was modest. His life was not glamorous. But it was stable, dignified, and free of panic.

“Do you regret not taking risks?” I asked him.

He smiled. “I took risks you didn’t see. I risked staying.”

That night, I realized the truth no book had sold me:

There is more than one way to be rich.

And not all wealth shows up on a balance sheet.

The rat race is real—but so is the cliff beyond it.

And assets, I learned the hard way, don’t pay rent unless you survive long enough to own them.