It’s an oddly demoralizing thing when the answer to life’s great question turns out to be something so blunt, so painfully obvious, that it almost feels like a punchline: it’s money.

There’s a strange power in that answer. A grim sort of clarity. But clarity does not always bring relief.

If money is the answer, what then was the question?

It is, perhaps: What is the single greatest limiting factor in my life right now?

Or maybe: If I had to change one thing—just one—what would it be?

The answer remains: money. Specifically, not having enough of it.

Now, I don’t mean that in a greedy or materialistic way. I don’t dream of yachts or private islands or golden toilet seats. I’m not chasing luxury—I’m simply trying to hold the basics together. And failing, just a little, every day.

It’s a hard thing to admit. It feels like failure. Like I’ve somehow fallen short. Like maybe I made too many wrong choices, or missed some secret that others knew. But then I look around, and I see so many people caught in the same current. Maybe I didn’t miss a secret. Maybe there isn’t one.

Let’s speak plainly.

I make just a little less than I need to cover my expenses. And no, those expenses aren’t lavish—unless one counts dental implants and vet bills among the luxuries of modern life. Some debt, sure, came from things I could’ve gone without. But the vast majority? The kind that accumulates over time, from flat tires and insurance premiums and surprise expenses. Life bills, not lifestyle bills.

And like so many others, I now tread water. I’m not sinking further—there’s some comfort in that—but I’m also not swimming free. Financially, I’m stuck. And emotionally, that takes a toll.

Imagine paddling as hard as you can, lungs burning, muscles aching, and discovering you’re not moving forward at all. That’s what it feels like.

Could I cut back more? Could I work a second job? Of course. But at what cost? Time with those I love? Energy for the passions that make life meaningful? This is the very equation I used to solve by sacrificing myself. I’ve done it before. I’m not willing to do it again. Because I know how that story ends: another decade spent in survival mode, with no stories to tell but how tired I was.

That’s not life. That’s a sentence.

Worse still, this shortage doesn’t just clip my own wings. There are things I want to do for the people I care about—for my girlfriend, for my kids, for her kids for my grandkids—that I simply cannot afford. Not extravagant things. Just… human things. The kind of gestures that say, “I see you. I love you. Let me take care of this.”

The job I have now? It pays just enough to keep me from drowning, but not enough to lift me out of the water. It’s a boat with a leak you have to keep bailing out, and you get used to the rhythm of the work until you realize you’ve gone nowhere. The only “benefit” it offers is a decent schedule and a company car. The rest is a slow erosion.

I don’t want to survive. I want to live.

And so the mind turns to escape routes. To autonomy. To digital businesses and income streams I can own. I imagine a life where I create something of value—on YouTube, perhaps, or through some service or product I build—and in return, I gain not just money, but time and freedom. The holy trinity: location independence, time independence, value alignment.

But here’s the rub. What exactly do I offer that is valuable enough to sustain me? That question has proven more elusive than expected.

People often talk about how hard it is to work on YouTube, how much hustle it takes. That makes me chuckle. A video doesn’t take that long to make—at least not the kind I make. The real work lies in building a system around it. A platform. A product. A reason for people to stick around. That’s the part I haven’t cracked yet.

And yes, I could pay someone—a coach, a consultant—to tell me what to do. But did I mention the original problem? The one about money?

There’s an irony in being too broke to learn how to stop being broke.

Of course, there’s free information out there. The internet is a boundless archive of possibility. But information without direction is just noise. And today, home from work with time on my hands due to an injury, I find myself paralyzed by it. I could do anything. So why do I feel so lost?

Part of it, I suspect, is the absence of structure. In a job, you’re told what to do. You may not like it, but you don’t have to figure it out. In your own business? You’re the mapmaker and the navigator—and if you don’t know where to go, the ship doesn’t move.

On days like this, I catch myself drifting into overwhelm. I should be learning new songs for upcoming gigs, cleaning my house, laying foundations for my dream. But instead, I feel inert. Not because I’m lazy. Because I’m tired. Because nothing feels urgent except the money—and money doesn’t come today, no matter what I do.

This is not a cry for help. Nor is it a confession. It’s a diagnosis.

We live in a world where survival often trumps creativity. Where money becomes the gatekeeper for even the simplest aspirations. Where being broke isn’t just a financial state—it’s a spiritual one. It colors every thought, every plan, every breath.

And yet, still I try. I ask questions. I fumble forward. I look for the shape of the thing I want to build, even if the blueprint isn’t finished.

I don’t have the answers. But I do have the will to keep asking.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s where the real wealth begins.