The Wealthy Man
Who Lived Poor
by: Ulysses Ybiernas ♦ December 23, 2010
Happiness is not measured by what fills your hands, but by what settles in your heart.
Today is the last working day before Christmas, and I can feel it in the air, though not in the way I had hoped. A stubborn cough clings to me, raw and hard, as if something heavy and unsaid has lodged itself in my throat. It makes every breath feel deliberate, every word harder to release.
The office is unusually quiet. No customers. No hurried footsteps or polite greetings for the valued clients who usually fill this place. Perhaps they’re all at home now, stuck in the Christmas preparations such as choosing gifts, planning feasts, arranging gatherings. Life must be moving quickly for them today, but here, time for me feels like suspended.
As for me, I already know how this day will end. I’ll stop by the grocery store on my way home, carefully choosing what little we can prepare for Christmas Eve. It will be simple this year. No helpers, as they already went hope to spend Christmas with their families in the province, no extra hands, just me and my three daughters. Their mother is still abroad, working, sacrificing another holiday away from us. So we will make do, the four of us, holding together what we can of the season.
Around me, I notice something else, something that unsettles me more than the silence. A few colleagues move cautiously, almost nervously, slipping Christmas gifts from clients into their bags, guarding them like secrets. Are those for everyone or for them only? Despite the bonuses they’ve already received, it seems it is never enough. There seems to be a quiet greed in the air, one I cannot ignore, though I try not to dwell on it. I don’t understand it and perhaps I don’t want to.
Because my reality is different. I still carry debts, left and right, responsibilities that weigh heavier than any gift. And yet, somehow, I still find it in me to give. Just the other day, I bought groceries for the three security guards who accompany me whenever I go to the Central Bank to withdraw money for the bank. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Enough, I hope, to remind them they are seen, as they did not receive any bonuses like we do, as contractual employees coming from an agency.
And then, in moments like this, my mind wanders.
What if I had more? Not just enough, but abundance. What would I do with a life untouched by financial worry? I imagine traveling across countries, seeing places I’ve only heard about. Staying in hotels and resorts with my family, free from counting every expense. Maybe I’d buy a vast piece of land somewhere quiet, a farm where life moves slowly. I’d leave this job behind and wake each day to peace instead of pressure.
But even as I dream, I am reminded of someone who quietly challenges my understanding of wealth.
There is a client, an elderly Chinese man, who I presume still single, but one of our most valued clients. Yet he lives in a way that defies everything I thought wealth looked like. He comes to the bank almost every day, exchanging large bills for smaller ones, always in nearly the same denominations. He never fills out withdrawal slips, never lingers long. It’s a routine that feels almost ritualistic.
Outside the bank, I see him often. Walking alone through the downtown streets, sometimes near here, always looking worn and tired. He wears nearly the same clothes each time, simple and unremarkable. In his one hand, there is usually a small plastic bag of bananas, the grocery label still attached, and in the other hand, an umbrella. A wealthy man, living like he has nothing.
I don’t understand his life. I don’t know his story. But I choose not to judge. Whatever path he walks, whatever burdens or beliefs he carries, I can only hope he finds peace in it. There is something about him that feels gentle though, even kind, something I must respect.
And it makes me wonder: is he happy?
Perhaps happiness is not something that can be measured the same way for everyone. Maybe it isn’t tied to wealth, status, or appearance. Maybe it’s shaped quietly, privately, according to what each person values most.
After all, give a sack of rice to a rich man, and he may see it as meaningless or worse, an insult. But give that same sack of rice to someone who has nothing, and it becomes a reason to celebrate, a moment of pure gratitude.
Happiness, then, is relative. It shifts depending on who we are, what we need, and how we choose to see the world.
And maybe that is the lesson I am meant to carry today.
Perhaps this is my reminder, not to build my happiness on things that are difficult to attain or easy to lose. Not to measure it against wealth or possessions. If I set my expectations too high, I risk constant disappointment. But if I learn to find contentment in the small, certain things, my children, a shared meal, the quiet act of giving, then maybe happiness becomes something within reach.
Something steady.
Something real.
“Maybe happiness is not something we chase, but something we choose, again and again.”
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