Someone asked, with the kind of detached curiosity only wealth can afford: “Do the rich inspire the poor?” As if poverty were a motivational seminar. As if watching someone sip champagne on a yacht somehow fuels the courage to survive eviction, feed your kids, or choose groceries over gas. Let me be clear: The poor are not waiting for inspiration. They are creating it. Every day. From scratch. With duct tape, borrowed Wi-Fi, and the kind of grit that doesn’t trend on LinkedIn.
The rich inspire… algorithms. They inspire hustle culture, burnout, and the fantasy of “making it” if you just sacrifice enough sleep, softness, and sanity. They inspire TED Talks and tax loopholes.
But the poor? They inspire poetry. They inspire community. They inspire survival with style, resistance with rhythm, and love that doesn’t need a brand deal. So no, dear billionaire. You are not my muse. My inspiration comes from porch philosophers, velvet enforcers, and women who walk alone with grace and fury. It comes from the matriarchs who feed strays and still find time to write. From the ones who build sanctuaries out of solitude and stories.
If you want to inspire me, try redistributing power. Try listening. Try disappearing from the center of every narrative. Until then, I’ll keep writing. Not for you. But for the ones who know what it costs to stay soft in a world that demands steel. Inspiration isn’t trickle-down. It’s playtime, porch wisdom, and the kind of joy no throne can fake.
