#39: Reversing the Hedonic Treadmill 🏃🏻‍♂️

money reflections from six months of no income

My first three nights in NYC consisted of crashing on my friend’s air mattress in her A/C-less apartment. Facing a busy street, the window was propped open so a fan could blow out the hot air. Since I had earplugs with me, I made the tradeoff to welcome in the vibrant noises of Little Jamaica in order to avoid the sweltering heat. It was only marginally useful. Every morning around 5am, as the sun rose and streamed into the east-facing room, I groggily woke up covered in sweat. After washing my face still half-asleep and putting on an eye mask, I’d eventually fall back asleep.

On day 4, once I dropped off my stuff at my actual sublet, I sought refuge in the air-conditioned, urban food mecca Trader Joe’s. I was in a different city, but the consistency and familiarity comforted me. I had nothing scheduled for the day, so I took my time meandering through the aisles picking up the staples: eggs, baby carrots, and ingredients for my oatmeal that I eat every day for lunch (I don’t eat breakfast).

Going Nuts

As I pulled up to the nut butters, a decision that I haven’t had to think about in years re-emerged: Do I get the $6 almond butter (that I strongly prefer) or do I instead opt for the $2 peanut butter? This specific scene - staring in front of a wall of options, examining items for their price, ingredients, and nutrition was not completely foreign to me, but it had been a while. For most of my life, this has been the way. But in the last three years, with my six-figure tech compensation, I had the resources to simply gloss over prices at grocery stores and even restaurants and instead just buy what I want, regardless of price. The difference between organic vs. conventional or $42 salmon vs. $28 pasta is negligible when you make $200k per year.

Sensing the internal tension, I picked up one jar of peanut butter, but set it back down once I saw palm oil listed as an ingredient. The other PB I checked had added sugar in it, so after even more hesitation, I stuck with my go-to: raw almond butter. Health is still a priority for me and was ultimately the tie-breaker in this lockjaw decision. In retrospect, this wouldn’t have even been a decision to consider if I was still employed.

Choosing NYC

As I transition to my next chapter of life, I’ve had to repeatedly ask myself: Do I actually want this? Not just in the grocery store with a jar of nut butter in either hand, but every day, everywhere. I could be anywhere, doing anything, and yet, I still choose New York City, the most expensive city in the world. I could still be surfing in Southeast Asia or exploring other parts of the world, and yet I choose to spend most of my day reading, writing, and chasing my curiosity.

From the outside looking in, it doesn’t make sense why I would choose to be here while living off of savings. But to me, it makes perfect sense. NYC is the only place I’ve ever lived in where I feel highly ambitious and highly creative. San Francisco has plenty of ambitious people, but fails to recognize value in things outside of tech. While living in Hawaii or ski towns during winter, the beautifully intense ocean and mountains conjured creativity, but I lacked drive. When I’m in nature, I get inspired. When I’m in NYC, I get motivated. I need both. They feed off one another.

My friends who have been here longer than me often ask why I don’t live somewhere cheap like Thailand or Argentina. By reducing my burn rate, I’d be able to remain unemployed for longer. More days to relax by the beach with an ice-cold Bintang or savor a $8 grass-fed steak grilled over a parrilla in Buenos Aires. They misinterpret the purpose of my sabbatical. I didn’t quit my job to curl into a defensive ball like an armadillo. I left one path to explore and pursue the next. When viewed through this lens, money is a resource that’s meant to be deployed rather than conserved. I’m looking to maximize upside rather than minimize downside.

With prestigious jobs in law, finance, and tech, I sense that some friends look at me with confusion and maybe even a tinge of jealousy. They’re here by career-channeled compulsion while I sorta just stumbled into the city like the cool uncle who wants to have fun without any responsibility. From high up in crystalline skyscrapers, they dig into their comp’d dinner at 8pm while strapped to golden handcuffs. Meanwhile, I prep my humble and reliable oatmeal (with almond butter).

The Hedonic Treadmill

Hedonic adaptation, or the hedonic treadmill, is the psychological theory that we tend to return to a baseline level of happiness despite changes in external conditions. This is why the happiness levels of lottery ticket winners and paraplegic victims of horrific car crashes converges. Viewed through the lens of money, the hedonic treadmill is synonymous to lifestyle creep. As income increases, perceived necessities inflate, resulting in a proportional increase in spending just to keep us at baseline.

Growing up, eating out (even at McDonald’s) was a treat to me. In recent years, I wouldn’t blink twice when grabbing any meal if it was under $50. My childhood wardrobe consisted of predominantly Walmart and Costco fits. I still vividly remember the first time I bought shorts from Lululemon. I was still in college and spent an inordinate amount of time running a pros and cons list in my head on whether it was worth it to spend $68 on a pair of shorts. Over the years, funded by high-paying tech jobs, I’ve accumulated many pairs of Lulu shorts and pants which I don’t regret at all. They’re great products and worth the premium, but my pre-Lulu workouts were just as good. I look back at high school athletics with nostalgia. Quenching dire thirst out of a garden hose during summer two-a-days. Silly, immature conversations on bus rides with the boys while simultaneously playing Tiny Wings, Jetpack Joyride, or Temple Run. How hype we would get in layup lines during the pre-game warm-ups while someone had their phone connected to the gym’s speaker system. Those hip-hop/rap songs still remain in the core rotation of my workout playlist today. From a performance perspective, peer-motivated competition trumps fancy fabrics any day.

Early Days

When my mom quit her job to raise me during my first two years, we were living off $40k per year. It was humble beginnings. For most of my early years, I had one pair of shoes (always basketball sneakers). If it was a particularly busy day or I was complaining too much, my parents would appease me with instant ramen and a can of sardines. I still remember the earth-shattering Sodexo school lunches of chicken nuggets and strawberry milk. I didn’t know food could taste this good.

I’m grateful for my childhood. I never felt like my family was poor because I always had after-school care, sports practices, and playdates. Yet for some reason, I still sought to earn money from a young age. At 13, I started to ref U8 basketball games. At 15, I got my first real job as a retail associate at a private school uniform store. I got paid Virginia’s minimum wage of $7.25 per hour. We were held to a strict 30-minute break by our manager Kelly. Sometimes after standing for hours or simply needing to escape, I would go into the bathroom, flip the lid down, and plop down to rest on the toilet for a few minutes. By virtue of being a growing boy with a ravenous appetite and also constantly comparing my hourly wage to the cost of food, I started to eat $5 rotisserie chickens for lunch. With enough (free) sauce packets, rotating between bbq, ketchup, and honey mustard, I could devour the whole thing within my tight lunch window.

During senior year of high school, after college acceptances had been received and I could finally chill, I started to spend more time in the gym. At the time, my parents had already got me a 2-year contract to a good, but not great gym. I really wanted to work out at Lifetime Fitness, the nicest gym in the ‘burbs, but it didn’t make sense for me or my parents to pay for a second gym membership. So I got a job there instead only because employees get free membership. For a few hours per week, in the gym’s childcare center (yeah it was that bougie), all I had to do was feed babies bottles of milk and tell ten-year old boys to stop hitting each other. To me, working for a free membership where I could lift and hoop to my heart’s content was worth it. Plus it helped that I didn’t have to change any diapers.

I feel incredibly fortunate that my family was rich enough to never experience any serious financial stress (whether we were actually fine or they did a good job of hiding it), but poor enough that I learned the value of money. We became rich enough to go to Disney World, but poor enough that we drove 12 hours instead of flying. Rich enough to take an international trip every year, but poor enough to do it via Costco cruise packages. And when it came time for college, we were rich enough that they let me attend UC Berkeley over the in-state UVA. But poor enough that paying out-of-state tuition was out-of-reach. We moved to the Bay Area in part to qualify for in-state tuition. I use the word “rich” with gratitude. I feel blessed for all the opportunities that my parents gave me. But I also use the word “poor” with a nuanced sense of appreciation. I’m not sure I’d be as grounded in pragmatism if I didn’t learn to value my time through minimum wage jobs or how to have a good time without luxury.

Adulting

Cumulatively through my college days, I collected and cranked out seven internships. They varied heavily in legitimacy, compensation, and how much I learned. This would make for a more noble, underdog story if I had to pay my own way through college, but I had the privilege of my parents paying for my tuition. The real reason for all the internships is that I failed to get into any of the prestigious business or tech clubs after multiple semesters of trying. However, I still think money was a primary driver for me to seek out all these internships while juggling a full course load. I even took my junior spring semester off to work full-time. Not wanting to sacrifice my social life for that semester, I commuted two hours a day from Berkeley to San Mateo. Money was also part of the reason why I overloaded my last semester so I could graduate in six semesters.

My first job as a product manager paid more than my parents ever made. While I feel like I earned it through my studies, grades, and internships, I also know for a fact that I’ve never worked as hard as my parents did. This challenged some fundamental beliefs on how I thought the world works. Did they really sacrifice so much so that I could rinse and repeat between vacations optimized for Instagram, Michelin star dinners, and boozy nights at the club? Did they play the game of life on hard mode so I could play on easy mode?

Meanwhile, I carefully observed my older coworkers. The neat thing nowadays is with pay transparency and enough sleuthing, you can ballpark someone’s net worth within an order of magnitude based on where they’ve worked and crucially when they joined (startup equity). I realized I was digitally surrounded by several multimillionaire coworkers. On paper, they were highly successful and I knew I was on a direct path to ascend a similar trajectory. But something didn’t feel right because I wouldn’t trade places with any of them. If I was in my late-30s with a wife and kids, I wouldn’t respond to my 25-year-old minion (me in this situation) pinging me on Slack at 9pm. I had to keep searching.

With just three years of full-time work, my income trajectory looks somewhat like a rollercoaster: a steep rise after graduating and an even steeper drop as I embarked on my sabbatical. This relatively compressed timeline of rapid income inflation followed by a diametrically opposing compensation cliff drop has felt like a financial fever dream. In one scene, I’m 23 years old making more than I know what to do with. In the next, I’m 26 making absolutely nothing, but with a lot more wisdom.

Unconscious Lifestyle Creep

In recent years, like most people, I hopped on the hedonic treadmill unknowingly. At first, I was jogging at a conscious, easy pace. Opting for guac at Chipotle and not bothering to Venmo charge friends for little things ( I still try to abide by this). But then things started to get slippery. What used to be an occasional treat or splurge became just good enough. I started to Uber around without bothering to check Google Maps for transit options or Lyft to price shop. In Hawaii, I’d get fresh ahi steaks and poké multiple times per week without thinking twice. Last year, when I was working in Soho, I got Cava or Chipotle almost every day for lunch. Back then, I scarfed it down at the office for convenience. Now, I view Cava as a nice treat on Friday to close out the week. I don’t have an office to eat at anymore so I order it “for here”. Instead of staring at the monitor or scrolling on my phone, I savor each bite. It turns out food tastes better when you’re not in a rush and actually look at it as you’re eating.

I admit that I’m in a unique position. It's a huge privilege to be forced to be frugal, yet have zero worries about my long-term finances. I’m learning to accept loss and downshift gracefully into a thriftier mode of living. By stripping away the excess, what remains is the essential. This is different than the Marie Kondo approach and what other popular practitioners of minimalism preach. Rather than examine my existing possessions and sort through what brings me joy, I’ve gone full reset. Armed with a blank canvas, I’m relearning the value of money through calibration of what feels worth it and what doesn’t. In some sense, I’ve returned to the same ethos of 15-year-old me wolfing down $5 whole chickens: true value.

Life can be represented as a game of chutes and ladders. You roll the dice and see what happens. Sometimes you spot opportunities that accelerate your progress. Other times, you’re forced to retreat. In both cases, you’re always given a choice. When life hands you a ladder, do you grasp it and ascend? When life sends you back, do you try to resist gravity or recognize the moment for what it truly is: a slide? You can’t always control whether you land on a chute or a ladder, but you do have full control to go against the grain or flow with your environment.

Money Can’t Buy Happiness

All clichés are just clichés until they become internalized through lived experiences. As much as I’d like to claim my improved relationship with money is solely from inner work, part of the frame shifts on money are from observing the inverse in others: I know a bunch of rich, unhappy people.

Last week, I caught up with my lawyer friend at a bar at 9pm. He showed up with his backpack which I thought was worth probing because I intentionally let him choose a place to afford him a shorter commute. He said he did come from home, but keeps the laptop on him at all times in case he gets pinged, which comes with the expectation of instant response. With two phones and an Apple Watch that was checked every few minutes, he anxiously anticipated work to come barging through the front door of his mind. Rich conversation is fueled by presence and curiosity and unfortunately we were depleted of both on this night. We chatted for 45 minutes before he received the alert that he had been waiting for the whole time.

Another friend who works in private equity has been recruiting for a new job since October. With a demanding full-time job, he’s been spending weekends prepping stock pitches instead of hanging out with friends. He already turned down a job offer that paid $400k in salary and $300k in bonus because he doesn’t want to move to San Francisco. Hedonic adaptation applies to jobs too. The default expectation is to always progress up the corporate ladder of seniority, prestige, and compensation. Anything else would be considered a failure.

Last night, a friend’s friend who works in venture capital mentioned she was going to Jackson Hole for a wedding in August. I immediately responded that I’d be there too, but quickly realized we didn’t share the same excitement. She hates hiking and was worried about access to high-speed WiFi. In contrast, I’m stoked to return to the raw energy of the Tetons and plunge into cold alpine lakes. She’s staying in a nice hotel in town. I’ll be sleeping in the back of my car.

Threading the Needle

In basketball, threading the needle means making a crisp pass through tight space between defenders. In my current life, it means dodging financial land mines and making do with what I have. Everywhere you go in NYC, it seems like there’s infinite ways to spend money. I’m constantly finding ways to maneuver myself around cash-grab obstacles like Tom Cruise weaving through that valley in Top Gun.

Constraints breed creativity. No longer considering Equinox anymore, I found an even better gym for half the price. There’s no more eucalyptus towels, Kiehl’s products, or steam rooms, but the equipment is better. That’s fine with me though because I go to the gym to train, not pamper. I found a yoga studio in East Village that charges a fair $10 per class. I go 1-2 times per week and complement that with light daily morning stretching. Instead of asking friends to catch up at a restaurant, I invite them over for dinner. I’ve stayed completely sober during birthdays at bars to save money, calories, and my head the next day. For more professional connections, people are generally receptive to meeting up at a park instead of $7 lattes. And when my friends bring me as a guest to their offices, I slip a couple protein bars into my bag on the way out (thanks guys :)).

Reversing the Hedonic Treadmill

I sometimes catch myself tempted to explore short-term contracting, announce that I’m open to paid opportunities, or monetize my projects. But I think there’s something powerful in embracing Zero (for now). I haven’t made a buck in the past six months and I continue to wade through the uncertainty and discomfort. I may have surrendered my prestigious job title and income, but I haven’t noticed any meaningful, tangible loss in how I actually live. At the end of the day, I’m still doing what I want, pretty much every day.

Throughout the arc of my money journey from childhood to minimum wage jobs to internships to full-time PM jobs, I’ve continuously refined my relationship with money. It’s fascinating to me that this period of no income coincides with when I feel the wealthiest. I don’t set an alarm, only schedule things that I actually want to do, am the healthiest I’ve ever been, and frequently find myself enthralled in rich conversation. I’m learning that wealth exists in multiple mediums and money is just one of them. And perhaps the most important is time wealth.

The ritual of repeatedly reflecting on how I’m spending my money has transformative benefits across other domains. Through improving the quality of my money-spending decisions, I’m indirectly learning to use my time better. When I ask myself “Is this worth it?”, I’m exercising intentionality. Viewing money as temporarily limited, even though it may not actually be so scarce, is a proxy for a truly finite resource: time. When I’m at Trader Joe’s figuring out if I should splurge on organic fujis over other apples or debating between nut butters, I’m deciding what I value. In parallel, when choosing how to use my time, I’ve been asking myself “Do I actually want to do this?”, “Does hanging out with this person give me energy or sap my energy?”, and “Am I doing what I want?”

As an individual, I’m in perpetual work-in-progress status. I don’t have it all figured out. What I have learned though is how much I value having agency over my life. Perhaps that’s why I’ve been able to downgrade my lifestyle and run the hedonic treadmill in reverse without actually feeling like I’m suffering at all. In the past, I’ve had the pleasure of indulging in wagyu beef, kurobuta pork, uni, caviar, foie gras… the list goes on. Even plenty of things covered in flecks of gold leaf BS. That all tastes great, but I’ll take oatmeal with a side of freedom over omakase served in a palatial prison any day. I’d rather feed myself with a rusty bronze spoon than get force fed with a golden spoon.