The funny thing about money in the bank is that no matter how much you have, you wish you had more.

Even though I had less once than I do now, it’s not as much as I had yesterday, so I’m thinking, FUCK!

Sirens are going off. A whirling red light is spinning in panic: You’re losing! You’re losing!

HURRY HURRY HURRY! DO SOMETHING!

And the man within kicks at my present self and says, You stupid motherfucker! I told you to move it into bonds!

I politely remind him that his 20/20 vision only works when you’re looking backwards and that yesterday’s perfection for today is futile for any day.

He still calls me stupid and points to the financial statements: Do something!

And I do, but not what he thinks. I meet people on zoom who remind me there is more to lose and that loss comes for you anyway and that I am lucky. They remind me of where I came from. Their stories help me see the riches I have that can’t be counted in a ledger.

Moms and sisters and mother-in-laws and brothers and friends and a beautiful woman who smiles at me even as the wreckage falls around us. And two kids who gleefully and mischievously burp the alphabet at the dinner table.

I meet people who have come from darker places than I and who remind me of the barren moment I once was in and from which all has sprung.

That’s when I realize I was wrong to think that money in the bank is a mountain I am building: It is a well that I too easily fall into.