The ultimate trap of financial success is weaponizing your ability to make money as a substitute for your ability to be vulnerable.
My mom called me last week to say thank you for the money. I couldn't remember the last time she called just to talk.
That sat with me for three days. Still sitting with me now.
When I sold my logistics company, I started sending money home every month. Not a lot at first. A few hundred. Enough to cover my parents' water bill or help one of my siblings with car insurance. It felt good. It felt like the whole point. Filipino kid makes it, sends money home, parents finally get to breathe a little. That's the story you grow up hearing. That's the story you want to be in.
Then the digital products started working. Revenue went from unpredictable to steady. I bumped the transfers up. Started covering bigger things. A medical bill. A semester of my nephew's tuition. New tires for my brother's truck.
Nobody asked me to. That's important. Nobody called and said send more. I just did it because I could and because it felt like the cleanest way to matter from 7,000 miles away.
Here's what happened next. Slowly. So slowly, I didn't notice.
The calls changed. My mom would call to tell me about a bill, a thing that broke, or a situation one of my siblings was dealing with. And I'd say I got it and send money, and that would be the call. Five minutes. Problem, solution, done.
I turned myself into a service.
I became the sibling who fixes things with a Wise transfer and a thumbs-up emoji. And my family let me because what else are they supposed to do? Say no, don't help us?
That's the trap. You find the thing you're good at, and you use it to replace the thing you're scared of. I'm good at making money. I'm not good at being close. Money let me feel connected to my family without actually being connected to them. Every transfer was a tiny substitute for a conversation I didn't know how to have.
You've done some version of this. Maybe not with family. Maybe with a partner, you bought things instead of listening to. Maybe with a friend you always picked up the check with because it was easier than saying I miss you. Maybe with your kids, overnighting gifts from the road instead of coming home a day early.
Money is the easiest way to care about someone without being vulnerable. It's generous. It's tangible. Nobody argues with it. And it lets you feel like you showed up without ever actually showing up.
I was in Mexico City in the spring when my brother's wife had their baby. I sent a crib, a stroller, and a onesie that said "My Tito Lives on a Beach" because I thought it was funny. He sent a photo of the kid in it. I liked the photo and sent a heart.
My mom was there. My dad was there. Half my siblings were in that room. Present in a way that doesn't fit inside a PayPal notification.
I called my mom the next morning. Not to ask if she needed anything. Just to ask what the baby looked like up close. She talked for forty minutes. Told me about his hands. Told me what my dad said when he held him. Told me a story about the day I was born that I'd never heard before.
Forty minutes. No transaction. No problem to solve. No transfer sent.
Best call I've had with her in two years. All I did was ask a question and shut up.
I still send money home. I'm not going to stop. But I started calling on days when nothing is wrong. Tuesdays, sometimes. No agenda. Just "what'd you eat today" and "how's Dad's knee," and whatever else comes up when you're not performing usefulness.
It's harder than sending money. Way harder. Because money has a number attached to it. You can see it land. You can feel the thank you. But a phone call where nothing gets fixed, and nobody needs anything, there's no metric for that. You just sit in it and hope it counts.
My parents crossed an ocean so I could have this life. The least I can do is not let a wire transfer be the only bridge back.
— Best, Jose
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