I'm Getting Rich

What it looks like to allow myself to splurge

I gotta say, this week I’m feeling jazzy. 

Maybe it’s Mercury finally going direct, the high from binging Netflix’s ‘Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story’, or my 10-month old daughter finally sleeping through the night (I almost didn’t write this so as not to jinx it, please, no bad juju). All of the above?

Then again, I think it’s something else. 

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My husband and I have been envisioning what our “Rich Life” entails. And by that I don’t mean Malibu mansions and private jets (though I’m not opposed, Universe), but rather a refreshing view that Ramit Sethi - advisor, author, podcaster, and now Netflix show host - encourages us to start with. Forget the green numbers or the flashy cars that first come to mind when you hear the word ‘rich’, possibly making you squirm. Thinking about your rich life isn’t simply about listing expensive things you want. Instead, expand the question and ask yourself, what do you care about?

If that fiery Ferrari is true love, jot it down. But maybe the F1-aficionado in you also wants to floor it down the freeway in time to pick up your kids from school. Or whiz up the coast to the Ironman you’ve dreamt of participating in but haven’t had time to train for. 

Write those down too. Whatever brings you joy, material or not. It’s all interconnected. (ok legal disclaimer: I may or may not be stretching his points here, but I’m going with it.)

Getting really clear on what you value also helps clarify what you don’t. And that’s a key point Ramit makes, encouraging you to go for the things you care about, WHILE mercilessly cutting out the things you don’t. (Oh I see you Peloton subscription. Anyone looking for a bike? Mint-condition. DM me.) 

I find myself exhaling with this reframing. There’s relief and human-ness in it. 

For one, it doesn’t shame my daily oat lattes [she says sitting at a Venice coffee shop, hugging her mug]; and for this exhausted mama, the splurge is about more than just the caffeine. It’s a 6-senses ritual that starts as soon as I walk out my door. 

A usual suspect, spot next to my son’s preschool

But perhaps more importantly, it welcomes things into the ‘Yes column’ that would normally be considered a major stressor in any rich life conversation because they - at least in theory - mean making less money. (Do you hear the drumroll coming..?) Like not getting a full-time job and instead wanting to start my own ‘passion’ project. 

This, my friends, is the instigator for the current buzz in my bones, the pep in my step. 

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I left my job managing hot yoga studios ten months ago when my daughter was born (after having left my tech-startup job when my son was born), because everything in my body told me there was an even more aligned path for me. But I didn’t know what it was. Postpartum has been full of introspection and exploration (per usual right?), and now I finally have the vision. 

I’ll share more in the weeks to come, but for now know there’s a huge Monet enchanting my daydreams. I can feel it, but I can’t quite ground it yet. It’s vibrant yet blurry, inviting yet intimidating. Creating a Monet takes determination, time, sacrifice, belief; the quintessential life of a new artist. Sometimes I wish it was just a paint-by-numbers I could buy at Target. But alas, that’s not how it goes with a masterpiece in the making. 

Monet’s ‘The Artist’s Garden at Giverny’, 1900

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This weekend as my husband and I revisited our Rich Life list and dreamt big for our family, I had to re-ask myself what it is I really want, and make sure the answer came from my heart.

Acknowledging the stomach twirls, which questioned whether I could succeed, and saying - fuck yea. Seeing the dangling sparkly security net of a 9-5, and saying - fuck no. Able to cut through the uncertainty, the anxiety, the left-brain’s flare for being a buzz kill - and with my man’s championing support - I put all the chips on my name, artful life awaiting. 

And so, our Rich Life adjusts and we make some temporary trade-offs. Luckily our kids like eating our dog’s kibble. 

(As I finished writing this piece I received an email from a headhunter, hiring for a position at a private jet company. Test or joke, Universe? You’re hilarious.)

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