Brenden Matthews

The year is 2025. I’m turning 40 soon, sitting in a cramped 450-square-foot apartment with thin walls, $50,000 in credit card debt, and a credit score of 646. My financial worth: $100 in liquid assets. My net worth: deeply negative. Five years ago, I was worth over $7 million. This isn’t a story about market crashes or economic downturns. This is a story about human fallibility—specifically, mine. If you’re looking for a cautionary tale about greed, overconfidence, and the psychological pitfalls of sudden wealth, welcome. I’ve lived it all so you don’t have to.

I was sitting on the subway the other day and glanced up from my book to notice something that shouldn’t be remarkable, yet somehow was: every single person in my line of sight was staring at their phone. This wasn’t the first time I’d observed this phenomenon, but something about this particular moment struck me differently. It wasn’t just that everyone was looking at their phones—it was the mechanical thumb-scrolling and the complete disconnection from their surroundings.

I’ve been thinking a lot about boredom lately—specifically, how we’ve become so good at avoiding it. We reach for our phones at the slightest hint of downtime, filling every possible moment with scrolling, tapping, and consuming. It’s as if we’ve collectively decided that being alone with our thoughts is some kind of punishment to be avoided at all costs.

I like to write, and sometimes I like to write about writing. This meta-reflection offers valuable insights into the creative process. There’s a touch of irony here—similar to artists who teach because they can’t sustain themselves solely through their art. In my case, I’m neither successful enough to earn a living from my writing nor from teaching it, but I genuinely enjoy both activities nonetheless. This practice of examining one’s craft often deepens understanding, as teaching something frequently strengthens our own grasp of it.

Reflecting on the landscape of my past mistakes, I’ve noticed a consistent pattern: moments when my ego seized the controls and steered me off course. The abstract concept of “staying humble” sounds straightforward until we’re faced with real-world situations that challenge our self-image. Only when something valuable slips away do we fully grasp what humility might have preserved.