The combination of productised services, bootstrapping, and investing with returns pegged against founder earnings is likely to be the dominant mode of funding internet businesses of the 2020s.
There’s a moment of clarity that strikes when you realize that somewhere along the way, we’ve conflated these two entirely different concepts.
It’s a confusion so pervasive that it shapes entire life trajectories, drives migration patterns, and fundamentally alters how we measure success.
(long Sunday musing incoming)
In the modern hustle economy, net worth has become our North Star.
We optimize for it relentlessly—chasing promotions, switching jobs for salary bumps, moving to expensive cities where opportunities are dense but life is compressed.
We track our portfolios, celebrate our raises, and measure our progress in spreadsheets that capture assets minus liabilities with mathematical precision.
But net worth, for all its quantifiable clarity, is just one dimension of human flourishing. It’s a financial snapshot, not a life assessment.
When we say we want to “give our families the world,” what world are we actually providing?
Often, it’s a world where parents are perpetually stressed, where dinner conversations revolve around work deadlines, where family time is squeezed into the margins of optimized schedules.
We justify long hours and constant availability as sacrifices for our children’s future, but children experience these sacrifices as absences in their present.
My mother reuses tea leaves until the water runs clear. My friend's father keeps a wooden box in his closet, with carefully folded bills arranged by denomination. Another's maintains a small diary tracking every household expense down to the last rupee. These aren't quirks – they're battle scars from a generation that survived on less.
We are their children. We carry their financial trauma in our wallets, even as we tap them against sleek payment terminals at craft coffee shops.
The Phantom of "Enough"
Our parents' lives were defined by scarcity. A government job was the golden ticket; buying a scooter required years of saving. Their financial playbook was simple: hoard cash, avoid risk like cholera, and never, ever trust the market. Debt was shameful. Insurance was a rumor. Investment meant fixed deposits and gold – tangible, trustworthy things you could touch.
Today, I have three investment apps on my phone, a premium credit card that gives me airport lounge access, and a cryptocurrency wallet. I can explain modern portfolio theory to anyone who'll listen. I earn in months what my mother earned in years.
Yet when she asks, "Do you know what ₹400 meant in 1985?" as I order dessert at a restaurant, something inside me flinches. The ghost of scarcity whispers.
The Knowledge-Behavior Paradox
Last week, a friend called me in panic. The markets had dropped 3%, and he wanted to pull out his entire equity portfolio. This same friend quotes Warren Buffett in his sleep and has read every book on value investing. He knows, intellectually, that market declines are temporary. But knowing something and feeling it in your bones are two different things.
Take Aarav, a marketing manager who maxes out her credit card for airline miles while postponing term insurance. Or Priya, a tech lead who keeps ₹20 lakhs in a savings account "for emergencies." Her parents did the same, but their emergency was a drought or a broken femur. Priya's emergency is... theoretical. She can't explain it. The ghost whispers, "Better safe than sorry."
Being a generalist is overhyped right now. Many young folks use 'generalist' as an excuse to not bother developing a strong specialisation or heck, getting hands dirty.
No one's going to hire you for being a well read intellectual. Start executing.
I know I'm mixing being a generalist with execution paralysis but that's what it largely ends up being.
Reading gives a cheap sense of accomplishment, quick dopamine hits. A good way of avoiding the pains of doing stuff, getting fucked and learning from those lessons.
Go do!
Most wannabe generalists gravitate towards entrepreneurship and product management because of how hard these things are to define.
There's comfort in not committing to anything in particular because then you can't be measured. Vagueness is attractive.