They call it leverage. I call it consented captivity.

Debt is the altar upon which modern success is sacrificed. Polished men in tailored suits boast about “good debt,” brandishing it like a weapon of the elite. But I’ve seen the other side of that polished coin. I’ve seen the wrists chafed from the golden handcuffs—how easy it is to mistake the grip of obligation for the embrace of opportunity.

We are told that debt is the lever that lifts us into the stratosphere. The mortgage, the margin, the startup loan—all sugar-coated instruments of ascent. But what if the ladder only leads to another cage, suspended higher above the abyss?

To be “rich in debt” is not an irony. It is a diagnosis. An identity accepted by those who believe they are playing the game when, in truth, they are the pot. Asset-heavy, freedom-light. The empire of finance thrives not on wealth, but on promises—the IOUs that chain even the most glamorous tycoons to desks they secretly hate, deals they dare not refuse, lives they cannot escape.

The modern investor doesn’t buy freedom. He leases illusions.

And the more successful he becomes, the more he owes—not just to banks, but to perceptions. Expectations calcify. Image becomes overhead. The more you build, the less you can burn. Eventually, even the match feels dangerous.

This isn’t to romanticize poverty. Nor is it a call to return to barter systems and bunkers. It’s a reckoning. With the fact that in a world obsessed with scale and speed, the cost of compounding isn’t just interest—it’s identity. Every line of credit is a line drawn between who you are and who you used to be.

So what does wealth mean when autonomy has been signed away for liquidity?

Some wear the suit and smile. Others wear the irony like armor. A quiet rebellion, stitched into every thread. You won’t find it advertised. You’ll have to recognize it.

And maybe that’s the only kind of richness left that can’t be repossessed.

In the end, perhaps the wealthiest man is the one no creditor can find.