I’ve met two kinds of people chasing the same dollar.
One runs like it’s a finish line.
The other walks like it’s rent day.
The first kind makes money for money’s sake—the dollar as a trophy, the game its own justification. You’ll find them counting coins long after sunset, as if the numbers might finally whisper meaning into their lives. They measure success by the weight of the wallet, not the worth of the work.
The second kind—my kind, I hope—earns money because bills don’t pay themselves and good folks deserve a wage they can live on. In that world, money’s not the goal but the grease: it keeps the gears from grinding, the lights on, the families fed. It’s a medium of exchange between effort and dignity.
When I hand a paycheck to someone who’s poured sweat and care into the job, that slip of paper isn’t just currency—it’s trust made tangible. It says, “You mattered here this week.”
See, profit itself isn’t the villain. Purpose-less profit is. Money without mission is like fertilizer dumped in the river—it breeds scum, not growth. But money harnessed with purpose? That’s compost. It enriches the soil of a business, the lives of its people, and the generations yet to come.
A wise farmer doesn’t hoard seed; he plants it.
A wise business doesn’t hoard profit; it circulates it—into better tools, fairer wages, stronger communities.
So when folks ask me if I’m in business for the money, I tell ’em:
“No, friend. I’m in business because money keeps the barn standing, the workers warm, and the ideas growing. After that, the rest is just bragging rights.”
That’s the difference between chasing wealth and stewarding it.
One hollows you out. The other fills the world a little fuller.
And if, in the end, you’ve made enough to live decently, keep your people safe, and still sleep well at night— why, that’s profit enough for any honest soul.
That’s all I have to say, I will say no more.
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