If I Were Rich

My first thoughts about what I would do if I were incredibly wealthy were the obvious ones—the same things most people imagine when they allow themselves to daydream. I would pay off my house. I would buy houses for the people I love, easing their stress and giving them security. I would donate to charities that matter deeply to me, like animal shelters and organizations that support survivors of abuse. And, of course, I would travel. Oh, the places I would go—Greece, Thailand, Japan. Even places closer to home, like Tennessee for the music or Alaska to stand beneath the Northern Lights and feel small in the best possible way.

There is nothing wrong with any of these ideas. I like to think that these are things I would do. They make sense. They are responsible, kind, even noble—except for the traveling, but who can fault me for that?

But I believe this challenge is about imagination, not practicality. So I pushed myself to dig deeper into my psyche, to find my absolute true desire: if money removed every limitation, what do I really want? What do I maybe even need?

If I were rich, I wouldn’t just buy things. I would hire people with the most brilliant minds to create something radical—a procedure, a magic pill, or a mystical switch—that could finally quiet my feelings of insecurity, worthlessness, and jealousy, that would get rid of the darkness inside of me.

I have tried to fix these feelings the way you’re supposed to. I have read and listened to countless self-help books like The Confidence Gap by Russ Harris, Overcoming Insecurity by Alicia Briggs, and The Jealousy Cure by Robert L. Leahy, PhD. They are full of insight and guidance: stop comparing yourself to others, challenge negative thoughts, practice self-acceptance. When I engage my rational, logical brain, it all makes sense. It all sounds doable.

But in the part of my mind that is irrational, illogical, and stubborn as hell, I still haven’t figured out how to put these ideas into action—especially when it comes to comparison. Comparison feels automatic, like breathing. Like something that happens to me rather than something I choose.

This past December, I began Intensive Outpatient Therapy (IOP) to address my depression, which is deeply connected to my feelings of worthlessness, jealousy, and insecurity. In addition to IOP, I met one-on-one with my therapist and attended a Dialectical Behavior Therapy group. Five days a week. Nine hours a week. Therapy became a constant in my life.

There is something uncomfortable I’ve noticed about myself in group therapy, and it’s hard to admit. While listening to others share, I frequently compare myself to them. And in those moments—and I know this is a shitty thing to say—I feel better. I judge. I think, wow, I understand what you’re doing here. You’re fucked up! I feel superior. I am fully aware that this judgment comes from low self-esteem, which I have plenty of. But for a brief moment, it brings satisfaction, relief.

Those feelings never last.

When those feelings desert me, I feel worse than before. Because the truth is, every person in that room is there for the same reason I am. Something inside each of us is broken and we don’t know how to fix it. We are all searching for the same thing: peace.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not walking around miserable every day. Most days, I am actually okay, content. I like my job, even if I wish it paid more so I didn’t have to fantasize about being rich or worry about having to pay my PG&E bill in the winter. I have two incredible, beautiful daughters whom I love more than words can express. I have an amazing group of friends who have become my family. I have two goofy cats—one perpetually cranky, yet perfectly content to sit on my lap while hissing at me—who make me smile no matter what kind of day I’m having.

My life, in many ways, is full. There are probably people who wish for a life like mine.

And yet, when feelings of worthlessness, insecurity, or jealousy appear, they yank me down fast, into a darkness that feels not only heavy and familiar but somehow safe. I know that sounds odd, but in the darkness, there is a certainty that soothes me—a predictable rhythm of sadness and disappointment that mirrors exactly what I feel about myself. In the darkness, my insecurities, my jealousy, my sense of worthlessness—all of it—fits. It makes sense to me.

In the light, everything feels uncertain. My successes, my happiness, my loveability—all of it comes under scrutiny. I convince myself the light shines only to expose my flaws and shortcomings, ignoring the good that my daughters, my friends, and even I sometimes see. The light asks me to risk hope, to believe in worth I rarely feel, to change the patterns I have memorizedl. That uncertainty can be terrifying, even when it promises something better.

If I were rich, I would spend every dollar trying to make that darkness disappear. Not so I could be perfect. Not so I could feel better than anyone else. But so I could live more consistently in the light. So I could stop measuring my worth against others and finally, truly, genuinely believe—that I am enough.

That, more than houses or travel or anything money could buy, is what I would do if I were rich.

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