Sitting in my new car, I waited to feel that burst of success, but I only felt tired.
It felt like just another day.
Most people equate success with money, and for a long time I was one of them. I “proved it” twice, and both times when success was supposed to arrive, there was nothing.
The first proof was when I bought my brand-new BMW at 21.
At the time I didn’t need a new car; I had one, and it ran perfectly well. What I really wanted was what a car like that said about me.
As a small child, I remember watching my mother counting the family’s money on the bed at night while we huddled around. A daily reminder of just how poor we were.
At 21, that BMW was my proof that I was a long way from that.
The insurance premiums were twice the monthly payment of the car, one additional premium for being under 30 and another because I was under 25.
By 22 the car was gone, keeping it cost me more than just money.
I bought a thing that said “I’ve made it”, and it left me worse off than when I was 9, packing people’s shopping for tips, so I could pay for my own school kit.
I built my first business, sold it, then built another one.
Each climb to the next summit my goals got bigger; and each time I reached the summit, nothing changed.
Most founders I talk to are doing something similar to this – but I’ve also been surprised by a few who knew what the money was for before they ever had any.
Every person has a supply in them that they draw from
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when you have a bad month,
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when nobody’s backing you up.
I visualise it as a reservoir. And that supply runs out at some point.
Money helps fill the reservoir once, and that first fill is enormous. You finally break through zero, and the relief is completely real.
The money keeps arriving at your doorstep, but quickly loses its meaning.
We get about 30,000 days to walk on this Earth and I wasted ~3,000 of mine on a number that stopped filling me years earlier.
Our reservoir runs low long before we notice somethings off:
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a milestone you hit that should feel enormous but doesn’t,
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a morning when your bank balance is the best it’s ever been but you feel nothing,
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a target you hit and then forget about by Friday,
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or when a good week and a bad week make no difference to you.
What fills my reservoir is a different reason than what a new BMW offers me.
I realised that my true passion lies in helping others.
I started an internship program in our own business. Helping youngsters take their first steps in the world.
And recently I also started working with students from the University of Leeds. Guiding some of their master’s students with their dissertations in international business.
It’s also why I enjoy helping founders unravel the complexities of succeeding in their market.
You’d be surprised how just a few minutes of your time can make an enormous difference to someone’s future.
Helping others gain the leg up in life that I never had is indescribable.
Offering me more fulfilment than any material asset ever could.
Most people fail because they give up. They give up when that first reason empties and have no second reason to keep going.
Ask yourself, what do you want the money to make possible.
Your answer doesn’t need to be grand.
You don’t need the whole answer today.
But your answer cannot be family, it cannot be your children. Any paycheck can fulfil that.
Once you have it, hold your answer against your worst week:
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the major client who walks out on you,
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the supplier invoice you again can’t pay this month,
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the final notice on your apartment because you can’t afford the rent,
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the morning that turns into a disaster before you’re even out of bed.
If the answer to your reason for making money is enough to get you through your worst week, then that’s the real reason why you’re doing what you’re doing.
You’ve found your personal why.
If you’re not willing to go through your worst week for the reason your money is for, you haven’t found your reason.
Many founders will fail this test on the first attempt… and failing is useful information.
It tells you the thing you named came from somebody else’s idea of a good life.
Don’t rush it,
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the honest answer rarely comes immediately,
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it almost never sounds like something you’d say out loud in a pitch.
Your answer won’t look like mine, and your answer doesn’t have to be noble. Nobody else has to understand it, and nobody else gets a vote on it.
The answer has to be specific. It has to be yours.
And it has to still make sense to you at 2 in the morning, when nothing else does and your world is crumbling around you.
