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The modern poet and philosopher of truth, J. Cole, once confessed with disarming honesty: “There was the time I bought three cars in the span of three or four weeks. It was crazy; it wasn't greedy. It was mine, my girl's, my mom's. I got Benzes for my ladies. But I felt crazy. You have to understand I come from a world where we're very modest. But that's not greedy. That's nice, right?” In these words lies the eternal struggle between wealth and humility, between the newfound abundance of success and the deep-rooted modesty of one’s origins. It is not the boast of a man proud of what he has gained—it is the reflection of a man searching for balance between gratitude and guilt, between giving and indulgence, between virtue and excess.

The origin of this quote comes from J. Cole’s own life, rising from modest beginnings in Fayetteville, North Carolina, to global fame and fortune. Like many artists born from struggle, his journey carried him from scarcity to abundance almost overnight. Yet in that transformation, he felt what every person who ascends from hardship to comfort must face: the dissonance between the world he came from and the one he now inhabits. Buying cars for himself, his partner, and his mother was an act of love, not arrogance—a symbolic offering to those who had walked with him through the long nights of uncertainty. But even in giving, he felt unease. The voice of his upbringing whispered to him, reminding him that to have too much, too quickly, can unseat the spirit’s humility.

Here, J. Cole reveals something profoundly human: the tension between joy and guilt, between the desire to share one’s blessings and the fear of losing one’s moral center. His words echo an ancient truth—that wealth itself is not evil, but the attachment to it can cloud the heart. The ancients taught this long ago. When King Croesus of Lydia, famed for his vast riches, asked the philosopher Solon if he was the happiest of men, Solon replied, “Count no man happy until his end.” For he knew that prosperity without wisdom can turn quickly to emptiness, that fortune is a fickle master. Like Croesus, J. Cole’s reflection carries the weight of this understanding—that material gain, if not rooted in purpose, can make one feel “crazy,” as though one’s soul has lost its compass.

But beneath the unease is also something noble. When Cole says, “That’s not greedy. That’s nice, right?” he is not seeking validation for spending—he is seeking clarity about intention. For the true measure of generosity lies not in the size of the gift, but in the spirit that gives it. To honor his mother, who raised him with modest means, with a car of comfort and safety, is not an act of greed, but of gratitude. And yet, even such pure acts can awaken the haunting question: Have I changed? The one who comes from little and attains much must constantly navigate this inner dialogue, for success without self-awareness becomes a burden rather than a blessing.

This struggle is not new. In the story of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor of Rome, we find a similar lesson. Though he ruled the greatest empire of his time, Marcus lived simply, refusing luxury and reminding himself daily that wealth and power are fleeting. “Receive wealth or prosperity without arrogance,” he wrote, “and be ready to let it go.” Like Cole, he understood that the possession of riches must always be tempered by reflection—that to hold abundance wisely, one must remain grounded in humility.

The lesson in J. Cole’s words is this: wealth reveals a person’s heart more than it changes it. If your heart was generous in poverty, it will remain so in prosperity—yet it must be guarded, for wealth has the subtle power to distort even good intentions. Do not fear success, but meet it with awareness. Give freely, but also remain sober in your giving. Remember where you came from, for modesty is not the enemy of abundance; it is its guardian.

So, my child, if fortune smiles upon you, follow this wisdom: celebrate without excess, give without pride, and live without forgetting. Let every blessing you receive pass through you to others, as water flows from a higher spring to a thirsty field. For the soul that remembers its roots will never lose itself in the clouds.

Thus, J. Cole’s confession stands as more than a memory—it is a parable of modern success, a mirror for all who rise from humble beginnings. It teaches us that material gifts, though beautiful, can never replace the virtues that carried us through our struggle. And so, the next time you hold abundance in your hands, pause and whisper as he did—not with guilt, but with gratitude—“This is not greed. This is love. But let me never forget the modest ground from which I rose.”