Stuff for your stuff? How much is enough?

Why I don't want to "scale" for an "exit"

Over a decade ago, I leased a 2-seater convertible Mercedes—sleek as a panther, 0-60 in five seconds. I was a single, corporate exec with disposable income, a love for fast cars, and an Alaskan Malamute.

Now, before you picture a 95-pound beast in the passenger seat of my roadster—tongue flapping in the wind as we overtake commuters on Dallas North Tollway—I should confess.

I had a second car for the dog.

It was a little crossover SUV, perfect for taking her to the vet, buying flat-pack furniture, or hauling my bike down to the Austin City Limits Music Festival for a weekend of sun and live music.

Yeah, I had two cars for one guy and a giant brown-eyed furball.

I loved that little convertible, but you know what I didn't love?

• Buying a new set of performance tires. Every. Single. Year. (They only last about 10k miles. At least, the way I drove.)
• Doing all the maintenance for TWO cars—oil changes, wiper blades, coolant flushes, cabin air filters, and key-fob batteries (so many batteries, I had them on Amazon Subscribe & Save)
• Buying a membership to the car wash so my Mercedes looked the part, and carving out the time every weekend to wash it so I got my money's worth.

When the lease was over, I wasn't sad to hand over the keys.

That experience changed how I thought about ownership. Everything you buy has a hidden tax—maintenance, storage, accessories—stuff for your stuff.

You buy a case for the phone, a cover for the grill, a charging stand for the smart watch, and storage boxes to organize the leftover bolts and screws in the garage in case you need them for repairs someday.

But the sad truth is, when something breaks, I forget about all the screws I've already stored in the garage. I trek over to Home Depot, buy another box of screws, and when I'm done with the repairs, I store them too—only then discovering I already had the screws I needed.

The question I'm asking myself is—and you can ask yourself too—"when we're at the point of buying stuff for our stuff, how much is enough?"

And I don't know the exact answer, but it's part of why I don't want to "scale" my consultancy.

I don't want to hire employees. I don't want to work 72-hour weeks for the next decade to create a "transferrable asset" so I can "exit" for a "life-changing amount of money."

What do I want to do? What drives me to stay small?

I want to go hiking with my kids while they're young.

I want to see the look of wonder on their faces when we discover a crab claw washed up on the lakeshore, watch a redheaded woodpecker hammer on a tree, or glimpse a moose drinking from a mountain stream.

I want to pick my son up from school on my bike on a random Tuesday, and take the long way home through the bike tunnel under the road.

I want to build sled runs in the yard when school is snowed-out, and watch my daughter build the confidence to set a new distance record in the snow.

I want to hit up the taco shop with my wife for lunch on Friday, sipping an IPA while everyone else hurries back to the office.

That's what I value.

Compared to more stuff for my stuff? It's not worth the tradeoff.