I Don’t Want to Be Rich. I Want to Stop Being Afraid of Tomorrow.

 

Financial security isn't always about luxury. Sometimes it's simply about knowing you and your child will be okay when tomorrow arrives.

I was sitting in a café, sipping my coffee and working on my laptop, when a friend appeared.

After the usual smile and greetings, she pulled up a chair and looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“Why do you work so much?”

I smiled.

She continued, “Every time I see you, you’re working on that laptop. Even when I call you, you’re usually busy working. What are you trying to achieve? What will money really give you?”

I paused.

My fingers stopped moving across the keyboard. For a moment, I looked around the café. People were chatting, laughing, ordering coffee, scrolling through their phones. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary.

Then I looked back at her.

“There was a time,” I said, “when I had almost no money.”

I had enough for the necessities, yes. Enough to get through the day. But not enough to feel secure about tomorrow.

“And whenever I thought about the future,” I continued, “I could literally feel a shiver run down my spine.”

It wasn't really about wanting a luxurious life.

It was about uncertainty.

Would my future be secure? Would my daughter’s future be secure? What would happen if I simply kept sitting with my hands folded, waiting for things to somehow improve?

Because sometimes doing nothing is not peace.

Sometimes, it is fear wearing comfortable clothes.

And then there were the comments.

The criticism.

The subtle reminders from people around me that I wasn't doing enough, that I should be doing more, that I should somehow take control of my circumstances.

The person who was supposed to take responsibility wasn't particularly worried about any of it.

So I had to worry.

Someone had to.

“You know how Maslow’s hierarchy of needs works, right?” I asked her.

At the bottom are our most basic needs: food, shelter, safety. Once those are reasonably secure, we begin thinking about belonging, confidence, achievement and eventually self-actualization, the desire to become the person we believe we can be.

“Money doesn't solve everything,” I told her. “But when you have spent enough time worrying about basic security, money stops being just money. It becomes safety. It becomes freedom. It becomes the ability to make choices.”

She listened quietly.

“Of course, everyone has to leave this world eventually,” I said. “But while we're here, what's the point of simply existing if we never try to leave something behind?”

Not necessarily a monument.

Not fame.

Not millions of people remembering our names.

Sometimes an imprint is much smaller.

A child who remembers that her mother tried.

A person who was helped because of something you wrote.

A life that became slightly easier because you existed.

That, to me, is an imprint too.

My friend’s mouth fell open slightly.

Then she finally said, “But Zahra, if you don't rest, how will you continue?”

Her question made me smile.

Maybe she wasn't entirely wrong.

But perhaps she didn't understand the kind of exhaustion that comes from feeling financially unsafe.

She comes from a wealthy family. For her, money has always been more of a given than a question.

For me, it has been a question.

And there is a huge difference between the two.

“Of course I want to rest,” I told her. “I want to travel. I want to wake up somewhere beautiful, drink coffee without checking my bank balance, wander through unfamiliar streets and just breathe.”

Then I smiled.

“And I want to do all of that with my daughter.”

That's probably my biggest dream.

Not an enormous house.

Not an expensive car.

Not a wardrobe full of designer clothes.

I want to take my child around the world and show her that the world is much bigger than the little corner in which we happen to live.

I want her to see mountains, oceans, old cities and strange little cafés.

I want her to hear languages she doesn't understand and discover cultures completely different from ours.

I want to give her memories.

But even dreams need fuel.

And unfortunately, airports don't accept dreams as currency.

My friend stared at me for a few seconds, apparently unsure what to say next.

Then, with a completely straight face, she finally said:

“Phir main deewaron se baat kar leti hoon. Tum lago apne kaam par.”

Fine. I'll talk to the walls. You get back to your work.

I laughed.

Apparently, she had decided that philosophy had reached its daily limit.

So I reluctantly closed my laptop.

She had something important to tell me.

A little gossip.

Apparently, a girl in our surroundings had been cheated on by her boyfriend, who had apparently been involved with her best friend.

And suddenly, my friend had plenty to say.

Her earlier philosophical crisis about my work ethic disappeared completely.

She leaned forward.

I leaned forward.

The laptop was forgotten.

Maslow could wait.

The future could wait.

The coffee could wait.

Because apparently, nothing brings two friends closer together than a little neighbourhood scandal.

And honestly?

Some conversations are about survival.

Some are about dreams.

And some are simply about who cheated on whom.

We need all three.