An opinionated breakdown of money’s meaning, role in society, and how it influences our decisions, habits, and lives.
I have to push—even in the most downtrodden times. That’s the line echoing in my head as I sit down to write this. Truth is, I didn’t feel like writing today. But I needed to. I’ve been needing to do a lot of things—submit more podcast pitches, build my presence, write new blog posts, find ways to provide—but the fog has been thick lately. And still, here I am. Not because I have answers, but because I need to find some.
They say when you can’t see the forest through the trees, you’re too caught in the immediate to see the bigger picture. And that’s where I live most days—deep in the bark, tangled in the branches, looking up and hoping the edges of the picture aren’t already burning. One illness. One bill. One misstep. That’s all it would take to watch this fragile house of cards fall.
I’m 45. I’m in a foreign country, struggling with the language, counting pesos to survive. I thought—no, I hoped—that by now I wouldn’t still be robbing Peter to pay Paul. That my years of sacrifice, hard work, and hustle would’ve gotten me further. But here I am, facing the birth of a child I love already, and wondering how I’ll pay for diapers.
My wife needs more help than I can give. I don’t need things to be perfect. I just want them to be better.
Sometimes I look back on the words I’ve written—blogs, social posts, video clips filled with encouragement and hope—and I feel like I’m reading someone else’s voice. A stronger version of myself. Was it fake? Was I lying to myself or just trying to believe? I see the quotes I used to share and ask myself: If I have this so-called wisdom, then why am I not in a better place?
I can’t afford depression and anxiety. Treatment isn’t an option for someone without time or money. Even if I were in the States, I wouldn’t be able to afford the space to deal with it. But I want to get to the root of it. I want to know why I keep tripping myself up. I want to know what it would look like to stand tall with clarity instead of doubt.
Some days, I feel like I’m falling with no one to catch me. Other days, I remember I’m not falling—I’m still walking. Slowly. Barefoot across the coals. Still trying.
I carry so many memories that don’t just haunt me—they inform everything I do. As a child, I remember my mom counting change just to pay for gas. Now, decades later, I’m counting change the same way. Except now, the change I count isn’t just coins—it’s pesos. It’s the crypto I cashed in, the silver meant for funeral expenses sold off, the birthday savings raided for groceries. Each piece of change was meant to symbolize hope, preparation, the future. Now, it’s a temporary fix for a never-ending problem.
My youngest daughter at a time wanted to be the flag bearer for her school’s traditional dance here in Mexico. She dreamed out loud with all the innocence and pride of a child who believes anything is possible. I smiled and nodded as though she could see me through the phone and told her how proud I was—but inside, I was swallowing my own dreams. The ones I had for her.
The ones I had for myself. I wanted to give her everything: the costume, the classes, the moment under the spotlight where she could hold her head high
But I knew I couldn’t. Not then. Not at that moment. And that kind of heartbreak doesn’t just pass—it stays with you. I remember those moments more often than not. Now I wonder what this child will dream of. Will she want to dance? Will she want books, or paints, or a bike? And more importantly, will I be able to say yes? How do I not fail her the way I feel I’ve failed before?
This baby—this child who isn’t even born yet—already needs me. Needs clothes. Needs love. Needs stability. And I ask myself constantly: At 45, am I enough? What about when I’m 55? Will I still be around? Will I still be strong enough to lift them, guide them, give them what they need? Too many questions and not enough answers.
When my mother was in her final days I watched her wither from complications of diabetes, piece by piece. She wanted to drive again after the first amputation. By the end, she was gone at 64, trapped in her home. I carry that memory like a prophecy I’m terrified will come true.
Not long ago, I imagined of launching something that would change it all. A website, a book, a walk across America. I wanted to rebuild. I wanted to reclaim some type of glory. Not for vanity, but for dignity. I want to stand tall and say I have something.
Should I just stop instead and enjoy the life I have? Or push to do more so I’m not crushed under the same weight that pinned her down? Is it too late to make money, to build wealth, to be more than a man living in survival mode?
And what would it have looked like if I had received help for the mental burdens sooner? If I hadn’t hidden my wounds from family? If I wasn’t afraid of uploading a TikTok because of someone’s opinion? How many moments have I lost to fear of being seen?
Even the author photo on the back of my book is a shadow figure. An upside-down purple question mark. A reference to the box I carried across the United States. A symbol of anonymity, of mystery, of insecurity and courage at the same time.
Do I want to be known? Or just heard?
I tell myself often: I’m the talker, not the podcast builder. I wish I had a team, a manager, a crew to guide the ship while I speak from the heart. I just need one person to believe. Maybe I’m that person. Maybe I have to be that person. But how many others have said the same thing, only to fall and never rise again?
I’ve done so much, and still, it feels like not even a drop in the bucket.
And then there’s this—this blog, this moment, this long, jumbled attempt to make sense of it all. Maybe it’s not the forest. Maybe it’s just one tree at a time. Maybe clarity comes in steps, not visions.