I used to think happiness was equal to earning a lot of money.
When I was a kid, I'd lay pennies on the floor and count them obsessively. Middle-class family, always fascinated with what money could do. Fast forward to my first agency—I was chasing revenue like it was oxygen. More clients, bigger deals, higher margins. I thought I was climbing toward something.
Then I got cancer. Twice.
Six to seven months of chemo during COVID. Lying in a hospital bed, unable to work, unable to do anything except exist. And here's what I learned: money is just the greatest story ever told. It's a tool. A really useful tool. But it's not the point.
I've been thinking about this a lot lately after watching Morgan Housel—one of the smartest financial writers alive—talk about his book The Art of Spending. What struck me wasn't the tactical advice. It was how perfectly his insights aligned with something I've been wrestling with since cancer: What's money actually for?
Not in the abstract. Not in the "build wealth and retire early" sense. But in the lived experience sense. In the flow, love, and acceptance sense.
The lie we tell ourselves
Here's Housel's core insight: Spending is a psychological itch you're trying to scratch.
It's not just "I want a nice car because nice cars are better." It's deeper. You're signaling to others. You're signaling to yourself. It's a trophy for what you've overcome. A way to prove you've made it.
I felt this in my early career. When I had my first agency, Nordic Digital, I was obsessed with showing success. Not because I loved expensive things—but because I had nothing else to offer. No deep wisdom. No real self-confidence. Just the desperate need to be seen as successful.
Sound familiar?
Housel tells this story about a funny statistic: If you win the lottery, the probability of your neighbor going bankrupt increases. Think about that. Your neighbor sees your vacation house, your new car, your kids in private school—and suddenly their definition of "enough" shifts. They do reckless things to catch up.
We anchor to the people around us. Our definition of success is relative, not absolute.
This is where it gets philosophical. Camus would say we're trapped in the absurd—constantly chasing a moving target that doesn't actually exist. We think: "If I just had X, I'd be content." But X keeps shifting. The goalposts move. You get the mansion, but now you want the private jet. You get the jet, but now you want the island.
Contentment isn't a destination. It's a choice.
The deserted island test
Housel has this great thought experiment: If you were on a deserted island with just your family—nobody could see your house, car, clothes, or jewelry—how would you live?
For me, the answer is obvious: I'd want a small place with a nice view. A garden to grow food. Time to cook, read, make music. Maybe a simple studio to work in. I wouldn't want a Lamborghini. I'd want a pickup truck at best. I wouldn't want a mansion. I'd want space to be in flow.
Utility over status.
And that's exactly what I have now. I live in my childhood town. I grow my own vegetables (and mushrooms). I wear the same black t-shirt every day (not literally the same one, but you get it). I don't buy fancy things. I work on projects I love—Cathedral Studios, teaching at SoundHub occasionally, helping other startups from time to time, writing books, creating music, making content like this.
I love to work. I accept that. Even on vacation with family, I'm up in my room for a few hours making stuff because it brings me into flow. And that's okay. That's my path. Not yours. Not Housel's. Mine.
The question isn't "Am I doing it right?" The question is "Am I doing what actually makes me content?"
Independence + purpose
Housel's formula for a good life: Independence + Purpose.
Independence doesn't mean you're a billionaire who never works again. It means you have choice. Every dollar you save is a piece of your future that you control. Every dollar of debt is a piece of your future someone else controls.
I felt most independent after cancer. Not because I hit certain revenue numbers—I've turned down consultancy gigs that paid double, triple, quadruple what I make now. I felt independent when I realized: I'm only working on things that bring me into flow.
Flow is my purpose. Being with people I love is my purpose. Accepting life's absurdity—the fact that we're born with privileges and limits, and we'll all die sooner than we'd like—is my purpose.
Money enables that. But money isn't it.
Purpose is different for everyone. For Housel, it's being a good father. For you, it might be building something meaningful, or helping your community, or mastering a craft. But here's the trick: purpose shifts. My purpose went from music to startups to philosophy to games to gardening. And that's okay.
The danger is when you're stuck in a job you hate because of "safety." That's when the meaning crisis appears. That's when you realize you've been climbing the wrong ladder.
Independence is the freedom to choose your purpose. Purpose is what makes independence meaningful.
Let your business evolve with you
Here's what most entrepreneurship advice misses: your business should evolve as you evolve.
When your passion shifts—and it will—you have choices:
Give someone else the C-level role. Let someone who's still passionate about the original vision lead it. Step back. Advisor role. Board member. Free yourself.
Pivot the business to match who you are now. Cathedral Studios isn't the same company I joined. My role evolved. The projects evolved. The team evolved. That's healthy.
Start something new. Music to marketing to gaming to philosophy. Each shift brought me closer to rediscovering flow. I didn't force myself to stay where I was no longer growing.
I've watched too many founders burn out because they think they have to stay. They built this thing, so they're obligated to run it forever. Even when it's killing them. Even when they've outgrown it.
That's the real trap. Not the money trap. The identity trap.
You are not your startup. You are not your revenue. You are not your role.
You're a human being whose interests, passions, and purposes will shift over time. And that's not failure. That's growth.
The most successful entrepreneurs I know—the ones who are actually happy—have learned to let their businesses evolve with them. Or to let them go when it's time.
The journey matters more than the destination.
If you're miserable building a $10M company, what's the point? If you're in flow building a $1M company that evolves with you, you've already won.
Money follows flow. Opportunities follow passion. Success follows authenticity.
Don't build a prison for yourself. Build something that lets you keep growing.
The reverse obituary
Housel asks: What do you want your obituary to say?
For him: "Morgan was a good father, a good husband, a good friend, helped his community, was a good worker."
Never in a million years would he want it to say: "Morgan earned $X million a year. He had a house with 10 bedrooms. His car had 700 horsepower."
That's absurd, right?
Yet that's what we chase. Every single day, we optimize for the things that won't matter at the end.
For me, I'd want mine to say: "Jonas was in flow. He loved deeply. He accepted life as it was." Maybe: "He helped people find meaning in their work." Maybe: "He made something people cared about."
But here's the thing—I already know this. Post-cancer, it's crystal clear. Money doesn't matter in any fundamental way. I'd be content without it. I'm lucky to have enough to live comfortably, but I'm not working for money. I'm working to stay in flow.
The work that brings you into flow also tends to make you good at it. And when you're good at something, people pay for it.
That's the paradox. The less I chase money, the better I do financially. Because I'm obsessed with the craft, not the outcome.
What Housel doesn't say
Housel's insights are brilliant. But there's something missing—the existential layer.
He talks about contentment, but not acceptance. He talks about independence, but not the absurdity of life. He talks about purpose, but not the flow state.
Here's what I'd add:
Acceptance changes everything. When you accept that you'll die, that life is inherently absurd, that you can't control most things—money becomes less urgent. You stop chasing. You start choosing.
Flow is the ultimate currency. Maximize time in flow, not time in meetings. Maximize deep work, not shallow status games. The more you're in flow, the better your work. The better your work, the more opportunities (and yes, money) follow.
Love roots you. Money in isolation is meaningless. Money in service of love—spending time with people who matter, creating space for deep relationships, having the freedom to be present—that's worth something.
We're all different. Housel says this too, but it bears repeating: There is no recipe for contentment. Stop trying to copy another person's hero journey. You are the hero of your own story. Your path is yours alone.
What to do with this
I don't have a 5-step plan. I don't have a formula. But here's what works for me:
Save money—not as hoarding, but as buying independence. Even $100 in savings is $100 more freedom than you had before. Build to six months of runway if you can. It changes everything.
Spend on things that increase flow, love, or acceptance. For me: books, education, time with friends and family, tools for making music or businesses or AI, a quiet place to work. For you: probably different.
Avoid the status trap. Ask yourself: "If nobody was watching, would I still want this?" If the answer is no, don't buy it.
Choose your purpose—and let it evolve. What brings you into flow today might not in five years. That's okay. Follow it. Don't get stuck.
Build businesses that match who you are. Don't trap yourself in a company that no longer serves you. Let it evolve. Pass the torch. Pivot. Start fresh. The journey matters more than the destination.
Accept the absurdity. Life has no inherent meaning. You won't "arrive." The journey is the point. Money is just a tool along the way.
The thread
Money is the greatest story ever told. But it's not your story.
Your story is what you do with the time you have. How you spend your attention. Who you love. What you create. How deeply you accept life as it is.
That's the art of spending. Not money. But life itself.
