There's something so romantic about being broke in New York. You

“There’s something so romantic about being broke in New York. You gotta do it. You have to live there once without any money, and then you have to live there when you have money. Let me tell you, of the two, the latter is far better.” Thus speaks Amy Poehler, offering not merely a jest, but a reflection etched in the eternal rhythm of hardship and triumph. In these words, the ancients themselves would have recognized the wisdom of the journey: to walk through the fire of scarcity before tasting the sweet wine of abundance.

To be broke in New York is no simple condition of the purse; it is an initiation of the soul. In the city where dreams burn brighter than the lights upon Broadway, poverty becomes a teacher. The small apartment with cracked walls, the meals of bread and coffee, the long walks when carriages are too costly—all these are the forge in which humility and resilience are hammered into being. Yet within this struggle lies what Poehler calls romance: the nobility of daring to live, even when stripped of comfort, in the very heart of ambition’s kingdom.

History itself bears witness to such a path. Consider Walt Whitman, the poet who walked the avenues of New York with scarcely a coin, yet saw in its crowds, docks, and restless spirit the very pulse of democracy. Out of his lean years, he wove Leaves of Grass, a work that still sings of the grandeur hidden in the ordinary. For Whitman, as for Poehler, the city was both harsh and holy, teaching that the soul grows fullest when it dares to live where dreams and hunger collide.

Yet the teaching does not end in poverty. Poehler, with laughter and wisdom, reminds us of the other side: to dwell in New York with money. This, too, has its place in the human journey. For once the lessons of hunger are learned, once the soul has been seasoned by trial, the fruits of prosperity can be rightly savored. To sit at the table not with desperation, but with gratitude; to walk the streets not in haste, but in command—these are joys far greater when the memory of hardship still lingers in the heart.

The ancients often spoke of this dual path. Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor, wrote of fortune’s shifting nature, of learning to endure when deprived and to remain humble when blessed. The wisdom of Poehler echoes this same truth: that both poverty and wealth are teachers, but wealth is sweetest when it follows the training of want. To know only comfort is to be soft; to know only hunger is to be embittered. But to walk through both is to be fully alive.

The lesson is clear: do not fear the season of lack, for it shapes you into one who can later receive abundance without waste. And when abundance comes, do not scorn it, but embrace it with joy, knowing you have paid the price of understanding. For it is the contrast—the romance of being broke, and the peace of being secure—that gives life its depth and its music.

Thus, dear listener, take these actions: Do not shrink from struggle; let the lean days teach you endurance. Yet do not cling to hardship as though it were nobler than joy—when prosperity comes, welcome it with open arms, and let your gratitude deepen your enjoyment. Seek both the storm and the calm, the hunger and the feast, for together they compose the symphony of a life fully lived.

And above all, remember Amy Poehler’s jest, veined with truth: the romance of poverty may shape your character, but the freedom of abundance will let your soul breathe. The wise do not choose one over the other, but honor both as steps upon the great road of becoming.