If Money Were Not A Problem

John and I have this game we play sometimes—we fantasize about “what if” scenarios.

Most of the time, unfortunately for him, my questions lean toward survival. What if we lose our jobs? What if we get deported? What if it’s the end of the world? My brain seems wired to prepare for disaster, as if rehearsing the worst-case scenario might somehow soften the blow if it ever happens.

It’s not always this grim. There are also good moments when we ask lighter questions. What if we had superpowers? What if we could travel through time? What if we were suddenly, inexplicably, super mega rich?

There are endless possibilities, but today, I want to sit with one question:

If money is not a problem, what would you do?

 

I would stop checking prices when shopping.

I would own two fridges, both full, and a pantry stocked with healthy food, fresh fruit, and endless nuts and snacks for John.

I would try expensive food I’ve never experienced before—king crab, caviar, wagyu beef.

I would own a few treasured designer pieces—not many, just enough to experience what it’s like to walk into a luxury store and leave with a thick box elegantly wrapped with ribbons.

And maybe, sometimes, I would buy something purely for joy!

I would travel more often.

I would take unplanned weekday trips, just because.

I would visit places I’ve only seen in photos. I would tour the Pyramids of Giza in Egypt, relax at the Blue Lagoon in Iceland, attend Mass at St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican, see Stonehenge in England, smile back at the Mona Lisa, ride scenic trains through Switzerland, and spend slow afternoons in Venice, eating pasta and drinking wine beside the canals.

I would buy a house near the water.

I would buy three houses in the Philippines, side by side—one for my mom, one for my sister, and one for my brother. We would stay at my mom’s house every time we visit, like we always have. Unless, of course, they decide to move to New Zealand instead. (I think I would still live here, even if I had all the money in the world.)

I would spend longer time with the people I love. I would visit more often and stay longer, not limited to weekends, holidays, or borrowed hours at the end of long days. I would travel to see them without hesitation. I would close the distance that life, circumstance, and practicality have created. I would sit with them without watching the clock. I would let conversations stretch into nothing in particular. I would be there for birthdays, of course, but also for random Tuesdays.

I would quit my job and own a few businesses.

A bookstore that smells faintly of paper and coffee, with comfortable chairs by the windows. I would learn the regulars’ names and remember what they like to read. I would set aside books just for them.

Next door, there would be a bakery. People would come in for small comforts—a croissant before work, a loaf of bread on their way home, something sweet to make an ordinary day feel less ordinary.

And lastly, a publishing house. I would take my time reading manuscripts. I would publish stories from unknown writers—first-time authors who don’t yet know if their voice matters. I would care about the details: the weight of the paper, the pictures on the cover, and the satisfaction of holding something tangible that once existed only in someone’s mind.

None of these places would exist to scale or expand. They would exist simply to be.

I would read more books.

I would own a library at home, with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled over time.

I would buy books without hesitation. Hardcovers. First editions. Beautiful copies with thick pages and covers that feel good in your hands. Books that are not just read, but kept.

I would have a huge garden.

I would grow different kinds of plants. There would be rows of vegetables, and flowers too—more than necessary. Flowers I could cut and bring inside, placing them in small vases around the house so that even indoors, life continues to bloom.

Nearby, there would be a fire pit surrounded by chairs, worn in the way things become when they are loved often. On cold nights, we would light a fire and roast marshmallows. The air would smell like smoke and sugar. Friends and family would gather in that space. Time would slow down there.

John would have a farm—that’s what he says he wants to do if money isn’t a problem.

He wants to be a farmer. To wake up in the morning and step outside onto land that asks for his care. He likes the idea of working with his hands, of seeing the direct result of his effort, and of knowing that what grows there exists because he showed up for it.

I would be able to afford to adopt stray dogs.

Not just one or two, but as many as I could responsibly care for. I would give them space to run, bowls that are always full, beds that belong only to them, and daily walks and playtime.

I would give more.

I would sponsor poor children, just as I was sponsored when I was a kid. I would want children somewhere in the world to feel supported and to know that their circumstances are not the end of their story.

I think I would still write, because I want to remember. I would still walk for hours, without a destination. I would still sit in quiet places.

If money were not a problem, I would spend time on things that don’t produce anything. If money were not a problem, I would stop asking myself if something was worth it in measurable terms. I would allow days to be enough, even if nothing remarkable happened.

I would stop converting time into outcomes. I would allow myself to exist without constantly proving my value. I would stop measuring my life by output.

I would allow myself to just be.

No Rhyme, Just Reason is a Taupō, New Zealand–based blog by Ariane about books, good food, long walks, and unapologetic naps.