There I was, perched high in the towers of finance, a master of the universe in my own mind. Yet, a nagging voice of truth was starting to break through the illusion. The stark reality was this: I was contributing nothing of value to the world, and worse, I was profiting from its pain. The 2008 market crash, a catastrophe for millions, had been my personal goldmine. I had bet against failing companies and reaped enormous rewards as the global economy teetered. While families lost homes and livelihoods, my bank account swelled. My girlfriend’s words from years ago echoed in my mind, “I don’t like who you’ve become.” She was right then, and staring into the mirror, I had to admit she was right now. I, too, was disgusted by the person I had transformed into – a person driven by a relentless love for money.
This unhealthy obsession, often termed “wealth addiction,” was identified decades ago by sociologist Philip Slater. While it may not be officially recognized in addiction research, its impact on society is undeniable. Like a drunk driver endangering everyone on the road, the wealth addict poses a systemic risk. They are, in many ways, the architects of the widening chasm that divides nations, exacerbating the toxic disparity between the wealthiest and everyone else, effectively dismantling the middle class. Consider the staggering compensation packages awarded to some CEOs – like the $14 million, including an $8.5 million bonus, given to McDonald’s CEO Don Thompson in 2012. This occurred while the very company he led published guides for its low-wage workers on how to survive on poverty wages. Or the hedge fund managers who amass fortunes, only to lobby for tax loopholes that grant them lower tax rates than their secretaries. This exemplifies a distorted value system, a dangerous love for money that eclipses basic fairness and human decency.
Even with this dawning realization, extricating myself from the grip of this “love for money” proved agonizingly difficult. Fear became my constant companion: fear of financial insecurity, fear of missing out on future riches, and above all, the fear that I would one day regret abandoning my chance at perceived greatness. The world around me reinforced this fear, with many viewing my contemplation of leaving as utter madness. In a final, desperate act fueled by my waning addiction, I leveraged my position for an exorbitant $8 million bonus, a significant jump from the already substantial $3.6 million offered. My superiors, eager to retain my “talent,” countered with the promise of even greater rewards for continued service. But the realization had taken root. I walked away.
The initial year was a brutal awakening. Withdrawal symptoms manifested in nightly panic attacks, fueled by anxieties of depleting my funds. I obsessively tracked the careers of former colleagues, measuring my worth against their promotions and bonuses. Slowly, however, the grip of “love for money” began to loosen. I started to grasp the reality of my financial security; if needed, I possessed the skills to earn more. Yet, the insidious nature of wealth addiction lingered, surfacing in occasional, almost involuntary, lottery ticket purchases – a vestige of the ingrained desire for effortless riches.
In the years following my departure from that life, I embarked on a path of genuine fulfillment. Marriage, speaking engagements in prisons and juvenile detention centers sharing my journey to sobriety, teaching writing to young women in foster care, and establishing Groceryships, a non-profit dedicated to combating obesity and food addiction in low-income families – these became the cornerstones of my new existence. Happiness, a concept that felt foreign in my previous life consumed by the love for money, became a tangible reality. I discovered the profound satisfaction of making a tangible difference. The distorted lens through which I once viewed the world began to clear. Wall Street’s self-serving mantra – “We are superior, we work harder, therefore we deserve disproportionate wealth” – revealed itself for what it truly was: the self-justification of addicts, desperately seeking validation and power in a toxic culture fueled by the destructive love for money. From this new vantage point, the toxicity of that world, once invisible, became starkly apparent.
