philosophy is only profound when you can afford it

i’ve been thinking about how some things only sound beautiful when said from a place of comfort. the exact same words, even in the same soft voice, can feel like wisdom or delusion depending on who’s speaking. whether you’re wearing linen or polyester. whether your kitchen has filtered sunlight and clean lines or the kind of old tile that never really looks clean no matter how many times you wipe it down. there’s this quiet truth i’ve noticed but never said out loud—philosophy is only profound when you can afford it. and not just financially. afford it in the way people mean when they say, “she can pull that off.” afford it in the way people decide who is allowed to speak and still be taken seriously. you notice it most when you’ve lived on both sides of that line. when you’ve been the girl who writes about presence while trying to make rent. when you’ve said “i’m okay” and watched someone scan you to see if they believed it. because when a well-lit, well-fed woman says she’s slowing down to savor life, it’s considered admirable. when a broke girl says the same thing, it sounds like a cover story for failure. it’s seen as romanticizing survival. or worse, pretending.

and i get it. i do. we’ve all been trained to trust a certain kind of voice. one that’s already earned its right to be heard. there’s an order to things. first you prove yourself, then you become someone with insight. first you show your glow-up, then you write about growth. first you move into a home that matches your words, then people start calling them poetic. and in the meantime, what? are we just supposed to keep our thoughts in drafts? wait until our furniture matches before we talk about beauty? wait until we’ve healed before we say anything soft? it’s exhausting—this waiting to be taken seriously. this waiting to be seen not just as trying, but as knowing. because i think there’s wisdom that shows up exactly when things are unglamorous. when your shirt has stains and your stomach is tight from worry. when you’re still in it. that’s when i’ve found my clearest thoughts. not after the storm, but from the middle of the mess. and yet those thoughts never feel safe to say out loud.

i think a lot about the way we measure who gets to be insightful. who we call spiritual. who we assume is wise. it’s not just about race or class or how you speak—it’s about how you’re perceived. how legible you are to the world. how softly you can say something without being mistaken for weak. and how often we expect softness to come from safety. like you’re only allowed to be gentle once you have enough money in your account and a calm voice and a balcony with plants you know how to keep alive. and maybe i’m being sensitive. maybe i’m projecting. or maybe i’ve just been watching this play out for too long to unsee it. watching how the same sentence feels more valid depending on who’s saying it. how some people get credit for ideas they’ve only just started living, and others are dismissed even after years of practicing them in private.

when i think about the people who’ve taught me the most about how to live, they aren’t influencers. they’re women with soft hands from working. who notice small things. who fold clothes like prayer. who feed everyone before they eat. they don’t talk about mindfulness. they don’t write essays. but they live something ancient and true and deeply embodied. and they do it without needing to explain. and i wonder sometimes what the world would sound like if those were the voices we listened to more. the ones who don’t market their lives, but live them fully. not always loudly, but with care.

there’s something about being broke that makes you pay attention. not just to money, but to everything. to time. to beauty. to the details. you learn to stretch what you have. not just groceries, but joy. attention. quiet. and when you don’t have money to numb out with, you sit with yourself. not always gracefully, but honestly. and what comes out of that stillness—those thoughts, those questions, those soft truths—those are real. they’re lived. not borrowed. and yet those are the reflections least likely to be taken seriously, because they aren’t paired with proof. and maybe that’s why people wait. wait to speak, wait to start, wait to say what they’ve learned until they look like someone worth listening to.

but i don’t want to wait anymore. i don’t want to hold my thoughts hostage until i have a bigger kitchen or a better camera or a voice that doesn’t crack when i try to explain how i feel. i don’t want to pretend that insight only counts once it’s gone viral. i want to believe that it counts now—while it’s messy and true and unfinished. while it’s scribbled in the margins of my grocery list. while i’m still figuring it out. because that’s what philosophy actually is—not a conclusion, but a willingness to ask. to sit with not knowing. to say “i don’t have everything figured out, but here’s what i’m noticing.” and i think that’s brave.

i think writing this way—living this way—is a form of remembering. remembering that value doesn’t come from polish. that depth doesn’t need permission. that you can be poor and wise, uncertain and luminous, unfinished and already full of meaning. and if that sounds too romantic, maybe it’s because i’ve spent too long believing the opposite. believing that my voice didn’t count until i had something shiny to hold it in. but i’m tired of waiting for my life to look a certain way before i speak from it. and maybe that’s why i’m writing this now, this exact way. not to prove a point, but to make space. for myself. and maybe for you, too.

because i know i’m not alone in this. in feeling like you need to accomplish something before you’re allowed to reflect on it. in feeling like your voice is only worthy once it sounds like someone else’s. i know that quiet ache of having something to say but not knowing if it’s safe to say it. and i just want to say—you can start where you are. even if you’re still scared. even if your philosophy is soft and a little sad and held together with half-truths and chai and sleep-deprived clarity. even if you’re still living paycheck to paycheck and trying to figure out how to slow down without falling behind.

you can be philosophical while broke. poetic while overwhelmed. soft while tired.

you can live your questions in a messy room. you can notice beauty while waiting for your life to bloom.

you can write like this—unbranded, unstyled, unready. and it will still matter.

you don’t need a clean ending.

you don’t need more to be someone worth listening to.

you don’t need to perform softness to know you’re already full of it.

somewhere, right now, someone is sitting alone with their own thoughts, unsure if they count.

this is me telling you they do.

this is me telling you: say it anyway.