The new CEO rolls into the parking lot in his brand-new car. A ridiculously expensive chrome tank with bulletproof doors. It’s a gut punch, because you’re drowning in debt.
You watch him step out, and you compare. You can’t help it. Some dead-eyed podcast hustler told you, “Never compare yourself to others.” Burn that lie. You must compare. It’s survival. You size up the other beasts if you ever want to win any fight. Survival through observation. Militarists use other words: Strategy and tactics.
So the comparison lands, and you stand there with three choices.
First: Shrug it off, drag yourself back to your dimly lit cubicle: The cappuccino, the fancy headphones from last year’s small bonus. A pulse on life support.
Second: Shuffle to the water cooler, gather the nodding-herd. You gossip about the pharaoh’s shiny tank, his obscene salary. You experience righteous rage, you will recycle it tomorrow, next week, next year, but never doing a damn thing.
Third: Crawl back to your cubicle, crack your own ribcage open on paper. You write: I want more. Is that banal? Who cares, write it anyway, because even the pharaoh in his tank wants more. Then make “more” mean something. Better pay? Fine. Trite too, but real. Write it down. What number works? What path? Then turn that blade on yourself, asking: What have I got? So you speak well? Could be an underground income stream, a talk, a lesson, a pitch, a gig. You lift weights? Get some training clients, or flip the junk in your garage into rent money. Call it an alternate income, it doesn’t matter. It’s the crack in your cubicle wall. It’s your first seed of defiance.
And spare me the busy lie. “I don’t have time.” The pharaoh’s busier than you, and he’s stacking side streams while you scroll. He calls it diversification. You call it impossible.
Here’s where I’ve been so many times: Once you taste momentum, sabotage creeps in. You tell yourself it’s too hard, too far, too big. You shoot yourself in the foot. That’s worse than envy, that’s constant shooting-self-in-foot, in slow motion.
So do the ugly thing: polish your resume until it shines so bright you go blind. Send an email. Make a call. Talk to someone who’s two steps ahead. Bleed it out on paper. Do it badly, because doing it badly beats perfect silence.
And tomorrow. Yeah, wait for it, Groundhog Day: The loop spins up again. The chrome tank idles outside your loan-funded life. The sludge of social media calls, you dilute your fire with a reaction video, a rant about capitalism, a doomscroll of a thousand other “content creators” telling you how trapped you are.
Is that it? Your grand rebellion: Likes and comments? Or will you drag your raw, bleeding honesty back to the page, the plan, the diversified income stream. The thing that leaks because the blood means you’re still alive?
Tomorrow you compare again. And you light the torch again. Or you stay cold forever in the cubicle tomb.
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I worked in a factory and one of the owners had a porsche. Most workers came by bus or bike there, some by cheap cars. I was not jealous, but so angry. I love porsche and I am in no way against owning lovely cars (my dream car is a dodge hellcat) but I would in no way take that car in a parking lot where my workers are…low class people. Never. If I would really be unable to pay my workers a good percentege of my bussiness (because I am the brain, but they are my hands and feet..) I would at least have the decency to go there also by bus, bike or an ordinary car and keep the freaking luxury for high class meetings where everyone shows their temporary riches. Yes, that was also a wake up call for me. When I will be rich, I will pay my helpers fairily and better than anyone on that market..and I will not show off my riches to the ones who need my money to pay their rent.
God, this was a sensitive topic 😅 love your topics, always a good reading for me
Thanks so much! Man, I hear you loud and clear. You hit on something I’ve chewed on for years too. It’s not envy; it’s that cold friction you feel when the gap between the brain and the hands gets flaunted in your face. Some people genuinely don’t get that showing off the Porsche isn’t the flex they think it is. It’s the quiet way they tell the people holding the line that they’ll never cross it.
I’ve had to accept I’m not that guy, and maybe I never want to be. But I can be the man who sharpens his own blade and lifts what’s around him. You nailed it. When you’ve got people carrying you, feed them well. Treat them better than the market does.
I appreciate your story. It reminds me there’s a different way to handle the success so many dream about.
Stay sharp, brother. Keep building that Hellcat dream, but make sure your crew eats well first.