In college, I lived with a girl who was, quite literally, Crazy Rich Asian-level wealthy. Her life sparkled in quiet, effortless ways—designer shoes by the door, spontaneous weekend trips, and this impossibly tiny mini-bag she carried everywhere. It was elegant, chic, and looked too small to hold anything more than a breath of air.
One weekend, I asked if I could borrow it for a concert. She smiled, shrugged, and said,
“Sure, no problem.”
That night, I wore it like armor. I felt transformed—confident, stylish, almost glamorous. For a few hours, I imagined a version of myself that lived in that world. I even thought, Maybe I’ll save up and buy one.
Later that week, I looked it up online. My jaw dropped. The bag cost more than an entire semester of my tuition. I stared at the screen, half laughing, half panicking, realizing I’d spent the evening carrying something worth more than everything I owned.
The next morning, I returned it to her like it was made of glass. I confessed I hadn’t known its value. She just shrugged and said,
“It’s just a bag.”
That response stuck with me. To her, it was casual, replaceable, barely worth a second thought. To me, it was unimaginable luxury. Same object, two completely different worlds of meaning.
That moment taught me something I’ve carried ever since: value isn’t about cost—it’s about context. What feels ordinary to one person can feel extraordinary to another. And real wealth isn’t measured in handbags, tuition, or status. It’s found in gratitude, humility, and the awareness that what we take for granted might be someone else’s dream.
Sometimes, the most powerful lessons come from the smallest things. Even a purse.
