We are living in an era where the word “more” has been elevated to a commandment. More money, more recognition, more possessions, more connections — all echo in the collective psyche as though accumulation were the only measure of vitality. Yet beneath this chorus, many silently wonder: what if “enough” were not a limitation, but a form of liberation? What if the deliberate drawing of a boundary around desire were not an act of denial, but of mastery?
This article speaks to that threshold where acquisition ceases to serve us and begins to shape us into something unrecognizable. When Wendell Berry writes of “enough,” he evokes not scarcity but fullness — a fullness achieved by standing firm against the perpetual drift toward excess. Likewise, Bill Perkins, in Die With Zero, asks us to consider whether wealth without conscious enjoyment is little more than hoarded time and potential left unused. The myth of “more” thrives only when we forget that sufficiency is not failure, but strategy.
Consider this essay an invitation to audit your own narratives of progress. Where does the pursuit of “more” disguise itself as necessity, when in fact it is only habit or fear? Where does the line between ambition and inflation blur? As we explore this paradox, I invite you to also join as a paid subscriber — not simply as a reader of words, but as a participant in the deeper questioning of how identity, wealth, and meaning intersect.
The journey we embark on here is not against money, nor against growth. It is against the myth that money, in its endless multiplication, can provide what it was never meant to give: a stable ground for the self. Together, let us draw a sufficiency line, not as a prison, but as a horizon — a point at which desire is tempered by wisdom.
The pursuit of “more” often appears harmless because it cloaks itself in the language of progress. A higher salary, a larger home, a shinier car — these are framed as milestones of success rather than traps of repetition. Yet the very logic of “more” is infinite; the appetite it creates can never be fully satisfied. As Seneca wrote, “It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.” Poverty of desire masquerades as ambition when left unchecked.
To build a personal “sufficiency line” is to reclaim authorship over one’s life. It is to decide, consciously and with clarity, the point at which further accumulation adds nothing but noise. This line is not fixed for all people, nor even fixed across one life; it shifts with seasons, responsibilities, and inner awakenings. But the act of drawing it — of saying, “this is enough” — is itself radical in a culture addicted to expansion.
Take, for instance, the modern phenomenon of lifestyle inflation. A pay raise arrives, and with it, a new wardrobe, a fancier restaurant habit, an upgraded phone. Soon, the comfort once imagined at a lower income evaporates, replaced by the same restlessness at a higher cost. The sufficiency line counters this by anchoring well-being to chosen values rather than fluctuating desires. It asks not, “Can I afford this?” but, “Does this serve the life I wish to live?”
In practice, sufficiency looks like restraint not born of guilt, but of clarity. It is the refusal to trade time and peace for possessions that add little to one’s deeper sense of meaning. Wendell Berry insists that “the mind that is not baffled is not employed; the impeded stream is the one that sings.” Our impediment, then, may well be the recognition of enough — a boulder against the stream of endless wanting. From this obstruction, a song arises: the melody of sufficiency.
Examples abound. The family that chooses a smaller house to preserve evenings together rather than stretch into a mortgage that requires constant absence. The professional who rejects a promotion because the cost in time outweighs the additional digits on a paycheck. The individual who fixes what is broken instead of replacing it — not from miserliness, but from a recognition that satisfaction is not purchased but cultivated. These are acts of strategy, not sacrifice.
The myth of “more” thrives in comparison. We measure ourselves not against sufficiency but against others’ excess. The neighbor’s car, the colleague’s vacation, the influencer’s curated lifestyle — each beckons us into the illusion that happiness is always just beyond the next acquisition. Yet comparison is a thief not only of joy, but of clarity. The sufficiency line redraws attention inward, asking: What is truly enough for me, in this life, at this moment?
Bill Perkins’ radical suggestion in Die With Zero is to treat money not as an endless reservoir but as a tool to enable memorable experiences before time expires. To die with zero is not to squander, but to align resources with living rather than hoarding. Sufficiency and this philosophy converge: both ask us to step away from accumulation as a reflex, and toward conscious engagement with life.
Philosophy is not opposed to wealth; it is opposed to unexamined wealth. Epicurus, often misrepresented as a hedonist of excess, in fact wrote: “Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.” Here lies the sufficiency line: it is not drawn by the hand of austerity, but by the hand of liberation from compulsion. It is the space where choice becomes meaningful again.
The paradox of “enough” is that it offers expansion of a different kind. By capping consumption, we expand our attention. By rejecting perpetual striving, we open the horizon of presence. The sufficiency line is therefore not a cage, but a compass. It points us toward lives where value is measured less by accumulation and more by integration — less by what we own, more by what we become.
To adopt “enough” as a strategy is to declare independence from the myth of “more.” It is to craft a life where money serves rather than enslaves, where possessions support rather than define. In a culture where infinity is the idol, finitude becomes wisdom. Sufficiency reminds us that the art of living is not to escape limits, but to choose them wisely.
And so, the invitation is not to abandon ambition, but to anchor it. To let sufficiency be the ground from which aspiration grows. For when we know what is enough, the endless hunger subsides, and in its place emerges something quieter, sturdier, and more humane: the possibility of contentment.