There is a question I’ve been circling around for some time now—“But why? What’s different now?” The answer isn’t dramatic or sudden. It’s not one moment but the slow unfurling of seeds planted long ago, in my late teenage years.

Back then, I had a brief and, if I’m honest, somewhat cringeworthy flirtation with Amway. Like many multi-level marketing giants, they promised freedom and autonomy, while delivering something quite different. It was not a good experience—but it was a revealing one. Because buried beneath the clichés and sales scripts was a single piercing truth: most people were sleepwalking through a 40-year plan. They worked, waited to retire, and prayed it would be enough. And if you wanted real freedom—freedom to live, not just survive—it might require building something of your own.

That idea lingered. Dormant. I’d even dismiss it to others: “I’m just not cut out to be an entrepreneur.” I believed it.

See, I always imagined myself as second-in-command. Not the visionary, not the risk-taker, but the one who could make someone else’s vision real. The dependable strategist. I didn’t want the spotlight or the gamble. I wasn’t comfortable with marketing. I was downright allergic to sales. And what is any business, even a side hustle, if not a marriage of those two?

So I worked. I’ve been at my current job for four years now. It’s steady. Monday through Friday, 8 to 4. Comes with a company car. On paper, it sounds like success. But it’s a poor fit. The field bores me. The products don’t align with my values. And worst of all, it drains me. Not in the “bad day” kind of way—more like an ongoing erosion of something vital.

Whenever I looked at job listings for something better, I felt sick. Not metaphorically. Actually sick. Because the “good” jobs always required qualifications I didn’t have. And the jobs I could get… they felt like cages. I’d feel useless. Like the only thing I was good for was mindless labor. And I knew that wasn’t true. I knew I was creative. That I could solve complex problems. That I had value. But knowing didn’t help. The anxiety would mount until I shut the whole thing down.

All of this festered in the background for years. Until something shifted.

Maybe it was the rising tide of inequality. Maybe it was a YouTube algorithm that, for once, did me a favor. But I started stumbling into voices—channels that illuminated the deep structure of things. I’m no conspiracy theorist. In fact, I mock them regularly. The human brain is a marvelous pattern-detecting machine. But it’s also prone to hallucinating patterns where none exist. That’s how people end up seeing lizard people behind the Federal Reserve.

But this… this was different.

This wasn’t about shadowy cabals—it was about power and incentives. I began to see how tightly the game was rigged. How the education system was designed not to foster thinkers but to train obedient workers. How the very concept of retirement was dangled like a carrot to justify 40 years of compliance. I saw the matrix. And for the first time, I couldn’t unsee it.

It became intolerable.

I didn’t want my life pre-decided anymore. I didn’t want to be told what I was allowed to work on. I didn’t want my goals assigned to me. Even with the fear—even with the anxiety—the idea of building something for myself began to shine brighter than the dull comfort of being someone else’s cog.

Truth be told, I don’t think I’d have even considered this shift if not for the modern internet economy. The idea that people could run online businesses—or even just use platforms like YouTube as a launchpad—was revolutionary to me. Not because I thought it was easy. But because it was possible.

YouTube is something I genuinely enjoy. I’m good at it. Music too—it’s been a lifelong passion. I’ve been doubling down on it recently, playing gigs, chasing the joy. But music is still a time-for-money exchange. It’s not a bad thing. It’s beautiful work. But it won’t likely pay the bills long-term. And I don’t read music fluently, which disqualifies me from certain types of teaching and performing. I do it because I love it, not because it’s lucrative.

Role-playing games are another love. And no, writing RPGs isn’t going to make me rich either—unless I turned into one of those relentless content churners who fake enthusiasm for every popular trend. That’s not me. I can’t be inauthentic. I wouldn’t respect myself if I built a business based on pretending to care.

But what if I could do something different? Something unconventional. Something honest. A business that offers real value, helps people, and frees me from the grind of doing meaningless work… every day… for someone else. And maybe—just maybe—it could also free my girlfriend from her daily grind. Time together, after all, is part of the goal.

The more I thought about it, the more I saw how many other people were in the same trap. Maybe they don’t want to start a business. That’s fine. But they’re letting life pass by. They’re chasing obligations, not passions. Doing what they think they should, not what they love. That’s the real tragedy.

I’ve seen how addiction can steal a life. I’ve lived it. And while this is different, it’s still a kind of captivity. Economic stress. Emotional resignation. The slow erosion of possibility. If I could help even one person escape that—whether through content, conversation, or connection—it would mean something.

There’s an odd, slightly uncomfortable truth I’ve begun to accept: in order to stop living under the thumb of the wealthy, I may need to become a little wealthy myself. Not rich. Just enough to not fear money. Just enough to live by my values, not by someone else’s deadlines.

It’s not “if you can’t beat them, join them.” It’s more like: if you don’t want to be a slave, you must own the keys to your cage. You must refuse to be another replaceable part in someone else’s machine.

Life is too beautiful for that. Too short. Too rare.

We are told—again and again—that we must be productive, useful, obedient. That we must earn the right to live a life we enjoy. That we must prove our worth by enduring misery.

But when you follow that lie to its source, you always find the same thing: someone profiting from your surrender.

And that’s why I’m standing on this soapbox.

Because it’s time to throw off the chains.