My kind of Rich

My Kind of Rich (And It Has Nothing To Do With Money)

I don’t own a Louis Vuitton bag.

I’ve never popped champagne on a yacht.

I don’t vacation in Santorini or wear crystals worth someone’s monthly salary.

But I’ve got my own kind of rich.

● Rich is my mom's daal that tastes better than any overpriced risotto.

Because it’s made with hands that prayed over every bite.

Not served on a gold plate, but always served with love.

And no 5-star bill at the end — just a full stomach and a full heart.

●Rich is knowing that I can cry in the kitchen and someone will still pass me the sugar.

No questions. No drama. Just silent understanding.

That kind of comfort? You can’t swipe a card for it.

●Rich is a room that smells like hair oil and warm bedsheets.

It's the smell of safety. Of routine. Of “home.”

I don’t need a mansion when four walls are filled with people who wait for me to come back.

●Rich is a playlist that knows exactly when I need to heal and when I need to scream.

It’s my AirPods in at full volume, walking like I’m in a movie scene —

and feeling everything, fully, fearlessly.

Even heartbreak feels cinematic when your soul’s rich.

Rich is that friend who saves you the last French fry without saying a word.

It’s cousins laughing on the terrace during power cuts.

It’s finding money in your old jeans.

It’s being remembered, without having to remind people you exist.

●I don’t have a personal stylist. But I’ve got people who hype me up like I’m wearing couture.

Who’ll say “this top is so you” and mean it.

That kind of validation?

Better than any runway.

●My kind of rich is loud laughter in small kitchens.

It’s recycled outfits that still slay.

It’s tea that fixes moods better than therapy.

It’s knowing I’m loved, even when I’m not my best.

So no, I don’t have a trust fund.

But I’ve got memories that can’t be bought,

people who make poverty feel like peace,

and a life that glows — even without diamonds.

And maybe, just maybe…

I’m richer than I think.

And so are you.