I was at dinner with friends last week when someone mentioned they’d gotten a raise. Good news, genuinely worth celebrating. And then the conversation shifted to salaries, apartment costs, how expensive everything’s gotten.

And everyone did this weird dance.

One friend immediately said “Oh, I don’t really think about money that much. As long as I can pay my bills, I’m happy.” Another jumped in with “Money’s the only thing that matters—I’m just trying to maximize income.” Someone else deflected entirely: “Can we talk about something else? Money makes me uncomfortable.”

Nobody was being honest. Not really.

The first friend—the one who doesn’t think about money much—I know for a fact has turned down social invitations because they were too expensive. The second friend—the one who only cares about income—left a higher-paying job for work they found more meaningful. The third friend who finds money uncomfortable? They talk about it constantly, just always in indirect ways.

Everyone performs a relationship with money—either pretending they don’t care about it while caring deeply, or pretending they only care about it while wanting meaning. The honest conversation is: money matters AND it’s not everything.

TOMER ROZENBERG

We all know money matters. And we all know it’s not everything. But we can’t seem to have honest conversations about navigating that tension. We perform extreme positions—either above caring about money or only caring about money—instead of admitting the messy, complex reality.

And that dishonesty makes it harder to make good decisions about money. Because you can’t navigate something well if you can’t talk about it honestly.

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The Performance Around Money

I’ve been paying attention to how people talk about money, and I’ve noticed two main performances.

The first performance is being above money. These are people who say things like “I just want to do meaningful work” or “Money doesn’t motivate me” or “I don’t really think about finances.” They position themselves as caring about higher things—purpose, impact, fulfillment. Money is base, and they’re evolved beyond caring about it.

But watch their actual behavior. They’re stressed about rent. They check prices before going out. They make career decisions heavily influenced by salary even while claiming money isn’t a factor. They care about money—they just can’t admit it because that would contradict their self-image.

The second performance is being only about money. These are people who say things like “I’m just here to maximize income” or “It’s all about financial freedom” or “Everything comes down to the bottom line.” They position themselves as pragmatic realists who aren’t naive about how the world works.

But watch their actual behavior. They turn down higher-paying jobs for better culture. They value time off and flexibility. They care about respect and meaning and relationships at work. Money isn’t their only value—they just can’t admit that because it would make them seem soft or naive.

Both performances are dishonest. And both make it harder to navigate money decisions well because you’re operating from a false premise about what actually matters to you.

Why We Can’t Be Honest

I think we perform these extremes because honest positions feel vulnerable.

Admitting you care about money feels shallow. Like you’re materialistic or greedy or prioritizing the wrong things. Like you’re admitting you’re motivated by something base rather than elevated. So you downplay money’s importance to maintain your self-image as someone who cares about meaningful things.

But admitting you care about things other than money also feels vulnerable. Like you’re naive or impractical or not serious about success. Like you’re not realistic about how the world works. So you overstate money’s importance to maintain your image as pragmatic and smart.

The honest position—money matters a lot AND there are things I value more than money AND I’m constantly navigating the tension between these truths—that’s complicated. That doesn’t fit into a simple narrative. That requires acknowledging competing values and real tradeoffs.

And we’re not great with complexity. We prefer clean narratives. “I don’t care about money” is a clean narrative. “I only care about money” is a clean narrative. “I care about money but also about meaning and flexibility and time and relationships and I’m constantly making difficult tradeoffs” is messy and uncomfortable.

So we perform the extremes even though neither matches our actual values or behavior.

Money Matters AND Isn’t Everything

Here’s what I’m learning: both things are true, and the work is holding them simultaneously without letting either cancel out the other.

Money matters. It provides security, freedom, options, peace of mind. It determines where you can live, what stress you carry, what choices are available to you. Pretending it doesn’t matter is naive at best, dishonest at worst. Money creates real differences in quality of life and opportunities.

I work in government. I could make more in the private sector—probably significantly more. And that difference matters. It affects what apartment I can afford, what financial stress I carry, how much I need to worry about unexpected expenses. The money difference isn’t trivial or irrelevant.

But money also isn’t everything. It’s not the only thing that matters, and past a certain threshold, more money doesn’t proportionally improve life. There are things genuinely worth trading money for—meaningful work, flexibility, time, values alignment, quality of life.

I stay in government partly because the work is meaningful in ways that matter to me. Because I value contributing to public service. Because the mission aligns with my values in ways that a higher-paying private sector job might not. These aren’t excuses for lower pay—they’re real values that I’m consciously prioritizing over income.

The honest position is: both matter. Money matters enough that I think about it, that it influences my decisions, that I wish I had more of it. And other things matter enough that I make choices that prioritize them over maximizing income. The tension between these truths is constant, and managing it requires honesty about what I’m actually trading.

What You’d Do Differently With More Money

When I’m honest with myself about money, I can identify specific things that would be different if I had more of it.

I’d have less financial stress. I wouldn’t worry as much about unexpected expenses. I’d feel more secure about the future. I could save more, invest more, build more of a cushion. That peace of mind isn’t nothing—it’s valuable and real.

I’d have more flexibility. I could take risks I currently can’t take. I could pursue opportunities that don’t immediately pay. I could invest in my education or skills without worrying about the cost. Money creates options, and having more of it would expand my available choices.

I’d have more comfort. A nicer apartment. Better quality possessions. The ability to not always calculate whether I can afford something. Small luxuries that don’t seem important until you can’t easily access them. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it does buy comfort and convenience.

And I’d have more ability to help others. To be generous without it being a sacrifice. To support causes and people I care about. To not have to say no when friends need help or opportunities to contribute arise. Money enables generosity in ways that matter.

These things are real. Pretending I wouldn’t want them or that they wouldn’t improve my life—that’s the performance I’m trying to avoid. More money would genuinely make certain aspects of life better.

What You Wouldn’t Change

But when I’m equally honest, there are things I wouldn’t change even with significantly more money.

I wouldn’t work in a job I find meaningless just because it pays well. I’ve seen people do this—take high-paying jobs they hate, planning to do it temporarily and then finding themselves trapped by lifestyle inflation and golden handcuffs. The money isn’t worth the daily misery of doing work you don’t believe in.

I wouldn’t sacrifice relationships for income. I’ve seen people prioritize career advancement over maintaining friendships and family connections, and the money they make doesn’t fill the void of isolation. The financial gain isn’t worth the relational loss.

I wouldn’t trade all my time for money. I value having time to write, to think, to just exist without always being productive. I know people who maximize income but have no time for anything else, and that tradeoff doesn’t appeal to me. Time has value that can’t be reduced to dollars.

And I wouldn’t abandon my values for a higher salary. I care about working on things that matter, contributing to causes I believe in, being part of something meaningful. Money can’t compensate for feeling like you’re wasting your time on things that don’t matter.

These aren’t rationalizations for having less money. They’re real values that I’d maintain even with more options. Money would make certain things easier, but it wouldn’t change what fundamentally matters to me.

The Things Worth Trading Money For

What I’m trying to figure out is: what’s actually worth trading money for? Because there are things worth the tradeoff, and there are things that aren’t.

Meaningful work is worth trading some money for. Not infinite amounts—I’m not willing to be financially unstable for meaningful work. But some amount? Yes. The difference between doing work that matters to me versus work that doesn’t is worth accepting lower pay within reason.

Time is worth trading some money for. Flexibility to write, to think, to have a life outside work—that has value I can’t easily quantify but is real. I’d trade some income for more time before I’d trade all my time for maximum income.

Values alignment is worth trading some money for. Working for organizations whose mission I believe in, in roles where I’m contributing to things that matter—that’s worth something. Not everything, but something real.

And peace of mind is worth trading some money for. Less stress, better work culture, healthier work-life integration—these affect quality of life in ways that compensate for some amount of reduced income.

The key word is “some.” I’m not willing to be poor for meaning. I’m not willing to sacrifice all financial security for values alignment. But within reasonable bounds, there are things worth prioritizing over maximizing income.

The Things Not Worth Trading Money For

But there are also tradeoffs I’m not willing to make. Things that sound good in theory but aren’t actually worth the financial sacrifice.

Prestige without substance isn’t worth trading money for. Working for a prestigious organization that pays poorly but doesn’t actually do meaningful work—that’s the worst of both worlds. If I’m taking lower pay, it better be for something real, not just impressive-sounding.

Performance of purpose isn’t worth trading money for. Some organizations are great at talking about mission and meaning while being dysfunctional internally. If the meaningful work is just marketing but the actual experience is miserable, I might as well take the higher-paying job that doesn’t pretend to be about more than money.

Vague “flexibility” that doesn’t translate to real freedom isn’t worth it either. Some jobs offer flexibility in theory but still demand constant availability. That’s not actually flexibility—that’s just being underpaid while still controlled.

And suffering for suffering’s sake definitely isn’t worth it. Some people wear their low pay like a badge of honor, proof that they’re about more than money. But if you’re stressed about finances constantly, that stress affects everything else. There’s no virtue in unnecessary financial struggle.

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Permission to Care About Money

Here’s what I want you to know: You’re allowed to care about money without making it your only value. You’re allowed to want financial security while also caring about meaning. You’re allowed to acknowledge the tension without performing one extreme or the other.

You’re allowed to turn down opportunities because they don’t pay enough. That doesn’t make you shallow or materialistic—it makes you realistic about what you need to live comfortably and build security.

You’re also allowed to turn down opportunities because they pay well but would make you miserable. That doesn’t make you naive or impractical—it makes you honest about the tradeoffs you’re willing to make.

You’re allowed to wish you had more money while being grateful for what you have. You’re allowed to feel financial stress while also feeling fortunate relative to others. You’re allowed to care about money AND care about things money can’t buy.

The honest conversation about money isn’t “money doesn’t matter” or “money is all that matters.” It’s “money matters a lot AND there are things I value more AND I’m constantly navigating the tension between these truths AND it’s hard and I don’t always get it right.”

That’s complicated. That’s uncomfortable. That doesn’t fit into clean narratives about being above money or being practical about money. But it’s honest. And honesty is what enables good decision-making.

Being Honest About Money’s Role

Since that dinner conversation, I’ve been trying to be more honest about money in my own life and conversations.

When someone asks why I work in government instead of private sector, I don’t say “I don’t care about money” because that’s not true. I say “The pay is lower but the work is meaningful to me in ways that compensate for the financial difference within limits. I care about money, but I also care about mission, and I’ve decided this particular tradeoff is worth it for now.”

When discussing career decisions, I don’t pretend money isn’t a factor. I acknowledge it openly: “That would be a significant pay increase, which matters. But it would also mean longer hours and less flexibility, which also matters. I’m trying to figure out which tradeoff I prefer.”

When friends talk about their own money stress or decisions, I don’t rush to reassure them that money doesn’t matter. I validate that it does matter: “Yeah, financial stress is real and legitimate. You’re not shallow for caring about salary. And you’re also not naive for valuing things beyond maximizing income. Both things are true.”

The honesty is uncomfortable. It requires acknowledging competing values, admitting you don’t have everything figured out, accepting that you’re making imperfect tradeoffs. But it’s more useful than performing certainty I don’t feel or maintaining false positions that don’t match my actual values.

The Conversation We Should Be Having

The money conversation we should be having isn’t about whether money matters or doesn’t matter. It’s about how to navigate the reality that money matters AND isn’t everything.

How do you decide when money is worth prioritizing and when other values should take precedence? How do you know if you’re making good tradeoffs or rationalizing bad ones? How do you maintain financial security while also pursuing meaning? How do you care about money without making it your only value?

These are hard questions without universal answers. What’s worth trading money for is personal and depends on your specific circumstances, values, and stage of life. But we can’t even begin to navigate these questions well if we can’t talk honestly about money’s role in our decisions.

So maybe we start by dropping the performances. By admitting that yes, money matters to us, and yes, other things matter too, and yes, we’re constantly figuring out how to balance those truths. By being honest about our financial situations and constraints and decisions instead of pretending to be above money or only about money.

The mess is the honest position. The tension is the reality. And acknowledging that openly is more useful than maintaining comfortable fictions about not caring about money or only caring about money.

Money matters. And it’s not everything. Both are true. And navigating that tension is one of the ongoing challenges of building a life that actually works.

We should be honest about that.

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