You Can Look Wealthy or Build Wealth. Pick One.
When I was sixteen, in the early 1990s, I drove a 1975 Ford Gran Torino.
Dark green paint that had seen better decades. Plastic vinyl seats. A license plate that read Q-Cumbr, inherited from the previous owner, a graduating senior who had passed it along when he left for college and I got my license. I kept it. There was something about inheriting a small piece of a popular senior’s story that felt right for a $500 car and a newly licensed sophomore.
I had bought that car with money I earned myself: umpiring Little League games, stocking shelves at a hardware store. My parents believed that things you earn mean more than things you are given. That belief shaped me more than I realized at the time.
At stoplights, I would rev the engine.
The car had a V-8 351 Windsor under the hood and in my sixteen-year-old mind that made it formidable. What I failed to calculate was that it got roughly three gallons to the mile, that dark green paint from a previous decade did not photograph well, and that Buffy, in her white BMW convertible her parents had bought her for her sixteenth birthday, was not remotely interested in what a $500 Gran Torino had to say. She would accelerate. I would watch her go. The V-8 roared. Nobody noticed.
Neither of us had figured out yet that nobody at a stoplight actually cares.
A lot of us are still doing this as adults. The paint is nicer. The seats are leather. The Instagram post is better lit. But the stoplight impulse, the need to be seen as something by someone whose name we may not even know, has not gone anywhere. We have just learned to dress it in more sophisticated clothes.
This post is about that impulse. And what it costs.
Tim and Tom
A few years ago, when I moved to Arizona and stepped into a role managing a larger team, I had two junior colleagues who came to me informally for career advice. I was their three-level up boss and they were relatively young in their careers. Call them Tim and Tom. Neither name is real but the contrast between them is.
Our client at the time was a senior executive who had spent her career in New York investment banking before relocating to Arizona. She brought the culture with her. Crisp white or powder blue dress shirts only. Navy or grey suits. Cufflinks. In 110 degree Phoenix heat. Looking back from a post-pandemic world of remote work, golf shirts and video calls, it seems almost impossible. At the time it felt completely normal.
Tim noticed the suits. He was impressed by them, by the occasional cufflinks, by the fact that the company had relocated me from across the country. When he came to me for advice, his questions were about compensation. How to angle himself for more. How to get what he felt he deserved so he could do the things he wanted to do. A nicer car. Better vacations, the kind worth posting. Dinner at the right establishments with his wife, ideally somewhere with valet parking so his car would be noticed.
He would quiz me about our weekends. What restaurants did we go to? Where had we traveled? I got the sense he was hoping to hear about something impressive, somewhere high-end, a story worth calibrating his own aspirations against. He did not seem particularly impressed when I told him about our favorite Mexican spot, a place with authentic roasted meats, a scenic garden patio with palm tree views and colorful sunsets, where the waiter knew our names and knew our order before we sat down. That was not the kind of story he was collecting.
Tim lived in a prestigious older zip code, in a home that cost more than he could comfortably afford. He leased his BMW and refreshed it every two years. His Instagram was curated and consistent.
By contrast, Tom worked two towns farther from the office. Newer neighborhood, family-oriented, great parks, room for his kids to grow up well. When he came to me for advice, he asked how to become more valuable to the client and the company. How to lead better. He was curious about my interest in personal finance: how I thought about saving, what I invested in, how much I had managed to accumulate at his career stage, what he could do better. He was a genuinely generous person. Low ego, excellent attitude, the kind of colleague who made the work feel lighter.
Tom made roughly the same salary as Tim, but their financial and career trajectories could not have been more different.
I am still in touch with Tom. Long after we stopped working together, we became friends. We have lunch when we can, catch up by video when we cannot. His questions were always sincere and I found myself wanting to stay close to someone who was authentic, self-aware, and genuinely trying to build a great life rather than perform one. Without prompting, I have helped him along the way including recommending him for promotions even though I no longer work directly with him. If you remember the idea from last week's post that a generous spirit changes how people carry themselves and how others experience them, Tom is the clearest example of that I have seen up close.
Last I heard, Tim had moved on to a similar role to where he was a decade ago. Still driving a nice car. Still living a great life by every external appearance standard. We lost touch naturally. There was nothing dramatic about it. Some relationships are built on sincerity and some are built on something else, and over time you can feel the difference.
The difference between Tim and Tom was not talent, income, or opportunity. It was the question each one was unconsciously asking about every financial decision in their life.
Tim was asking: what will this make people think of me?
Tom was asking: what will this make possible for my family?
The Gravitational Pull
There is a force operating on all of us that I want to name directly, because naming it is the only way to resist it.
Call it the gravitational pull of other people's opinions.
It operates at every income level. It shows up in the car you finance, the neighborhood you choose, the school you select for your family, the vacation you plan around what it will look like in photos. It shows up in smaller ways too. The restaurant that is slightly beyond your budget but feels right for the occasion. The outfit purchased for a party rather than for regular use. The upgrade chosen not because you wanted it but because the alternative felt like an admission of something.
The gravitational pull does not require a six-figure income. It just changes its costume.
I have felt it myself. The pull was real. It is always real.
Proverbs 13:7 in The Message translation says it plainly: "A pretentious, showy life is an empty life; a plain and simple life is a full life." Solomon wrote that roughly three thousand years ago. The Instagram algorithm is new. The impulse it exploits is ancient.
What It Really Looks Like
The car that parks like a celebrity.
Tim loved to have his car parked prominently, like a movie star or celebrity, the kind of car valets notice and place where others will see it. He paid the extra twenty dollars specifically for that. Even if deeply underwater in debt, even if the meal was going straight onto a credit card at 29%, the car had to communicate something to the room. There is nothing wrong with a nice car. There is something worth examining about needing the room to see it. I wrote about the car math in Not the Lattes. The question here is not the math. It is what the car is really for.
The neighborhood that communicates something.
My company tried more than once to relocate us to California or New York. We chose not to go. Not because those places are wrong. Many people build wonderful lives there and I thoroughly enjoy visiting both places. But if you did not start your career there, the real estate and living costs midlife are genuinely punishing. The entire raise associated with the move and promotion gets eaten up and then some, and you can find yourself worse off financially despite the impressive city and title. We chose Arizona instead, which was meaningfully more affordable when we arrived. Post-pandemic, with housing prices roughly double what they were, that calculus has tightened here too. The point is we treated it as a conscious financial decision and a where-do-we-want-to-live decision, not a prestige one.
The school that carries a name.
When our son was in fourth grade, we realized his public school was not serving him well. A great principal had left. Teachers were leaving. After a lot of prayer and reflection, we looked at private schools rather than moving neighborhoods.
We found a genuinely excellent one. Highly rated. Exceptional support in exactly the areas where he needed it. Teachers who genuinely cared about him and knew him by name. The tuition was around $6,000 per year at the time.
Colleagues from graduate school were sending their family to Country Day schools and Latin schools at $18,000 to $30,000 per year in tuition, with activity fees on top. Some of those schools were genuinely excellent. Some of the appeal was also the name on the diploma and the social network it implied.
Our decision was driven by fit, support, and educational quality. Faith was a bonus in a school that shared our values. The price was intentional. We chose the school that was best for our son, not the one that would be best to mention at a dinner party.
The house we thought we deserved.
I wrote in a previous post about the McMansion we bought and its carry costs. But I did not share the full story.
We had just received a significant promotion. Career firing on all cylinders. We had moved our family across the country, disrupted our lives, left a home we loved, and moved a child in middle school. After all of that, there was a voice that said we had arrived. We deserved something that showed it.
The house was in a gated community. If you do not live in Arizona, that probably sounds like serious money. Out here it is far more common than in other parts of the country because of snowbirds and second homes. We were not mega-wealthy. But the neighbors were different from anywhere we had lived before. Late-model cars for their teenagers to scratch and dent. Frequent remodels. Vacations across the Western US for youth sports competitions. Private tutors. College consultants for fifteen-year-olds. Kids volunteering at hospitals at sixteen to build pre-med credentials.
The gravitational pull in that neighborhood was unlike anything I had felt before. It was specific. It had a face and a zip code and a school calendar.
Our son lived a different life we intentionally cultivated. He spent his high school summers working at Target and a quick-service restaurant rather than positioning himself for neurosurgeon at fifteen. He had margin. He hung out at the pool with friends. He had excellent grades and test scores. He ended up at a state school and is getting a great education on a partial merit-based scholarship. He will graduate debt-free and we will help him buy a reliable, low-mileage car next year. If funds remain in the 529 account, we plan to roll them into his Roth IRA. We have no regrets about these choices. But I want to be honest: the pull was massive. I understand how people get swept up in it. I nearly did.
The clothes that serve or the clothes that signal.
Long before Arizona, I spent years in client-facing roles in a Southeastern banking city where professional dress was simply part of the job. The culture followed me west. I chose classics that do not go out of style seasonally. Navy and grey suits, sport coats that work with everything. Hart Schaffner Marx over Armani, Gucci, or Boss. Nothing wrong with those brands. The choice was about quality and lasting value rather than the label. I still have those suits and sport coats a decade later. Still in style. Still unworn-out. I will likely retire wearing them on rare occasions, having never replaced them with fashion-forward alternatives that would have dated quickly.
The same logic applies to shoes. A $200 to $300 pair with replaceable soles and heels will outlast a $100 pair many times over across a career.
I am not an expert in women's fashion. But I have observed enough to know the gravitational pull operates there too, at different price points and different stakes. A classic well-made piece purchased once and carried for a decade is a different decision than a rotation of logo items purchased to signal current status. I have known people with closets full of designer purses worth more than most people's annual salary. The question underneath is always the same: who is this for?
What Wealthy Really Looks Like
Ronald Read was a gas station attendant and janitor in Vermont. He drove a used Toyota Yaris. He used a safety pin to hold his fraying jacket together rather than replace it. When he died in 2014 at age ninety-two, he left an estate of nearly eight million dollars. Six million went to his local library and hospital in Brattleboro.
He was not performing frugality. He simply did not need external validation from his car or his jacket. His identity was not located there.
Thomas Stanley spent years studying actual millionaires and found that they looked nothing like what people expected. They arrived at his research gatherings in pickup trucks and preferred club sandwiches to caviar. The people in expensive neighborhoods with luxury cars often had very little actual wealth. The actual wealthy people were invisible.
Warren Buffett has lived in the same Omaha home since 1958, purchased for $31,500. He drinks Cherry Coke and eats at local diners when meeting with the executives of companies he owns. Jeff Bezos and Bill Gates have built estates of extraordinary scale and expense. None of them are wrong at their income level. But Buffett's choices reveal something the others' do not: a man whose identity and contentment are not located in what his surroundings communicate to others. A Cherry Coke and a modest Omaha home bring him genuine joy. That is a different kind of wealthy.
You can look wealthy or build wealth. Pick one.
The ancient question is still the right one: who are you making this decision for?
Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Not where your money is. Where your treasure is. The spending reveals the answer whether you examine it or not.
Tim and Tom, Ten Years Later
Tim is in a similar role to where he was a decade ago. Still driving a nice car. Still living a great life by every external appearance standard.
Tom is a director now and likely to be promoted again soon.
I am not here to judge Tim. I drove a Gran Torino and revved the engine at a girl in a BMW. I felt the pull of the gated community, the larger home, the sense that we had arrived and deserved to show it. I understand how people get swept up in it. I nearly did.
The question is not whether you feel the pull. You do. Everyone does.
The question is whether you are making your next decision because it is genuinely right for your family and your future, or because someone at the stoplight might notice.
Full Circle
We downsized and escaped the house trap. And I have a home I love now.
I drive a nicer car too. Nine years old, low mileage, white, soft leather seats, features I genuinely enjoy. I chose it because I wanted it, not because of what it would look like from the outside.
The house does not announce itself from the street. But inside, every countertop, every paint color, every curtain is exactly what we wanted. Not what anyone else would expect. Not what signals the right things to the right people. Just what we love, chosen for us.
I could not care less about what the person at the stoplight thinks of the car.
I am just getting to where I am going with the people I love.
Two questions before you go:
What are one or two areas of your life where your choices are more about others' perceptions than what genuinely matters to you?
How would you feel if you did not post about your next vacation, big purchase, or meal on social media? Sit with that feeling for a moment. It might tell you something important.
Let's make wise choices and live a great life together.
🌵 Desert FI
New here? A few good places to start:
The Moment I Realized the Life I Built Wasn't the Life I Wanted : where this journey began
The Gilded Cage: what it feels like when the math says you are free but the engine keeps running
Cutting the Ankle Weights: how it feels to cut loose the things that look like success but feel like an anchor
Not yet on the trail? Weekend Reflections goes out every Sunday morning: a personal letter on money, meaning, and the courage to build a life that finally feels like your own. Join us at DesertFI.org/join.
