Some cultures treat money like a tool. Others treat it like a trap. In some places, being rich is a sign of success. In others, it’s almost an accusation. If you grew up in Latin America or Southern Europe, you know what I mean — even if you’ve never questioned it.
Here, the idea of money is soaked in moral suspicion. Whoever rises too quickly must be cheating. If someone talks openly about their earnings, they must be arrogant. If you dress well, it’s vanity. If you win, it’s luck. But underneath it all, there’s one unspoken message: don’t shine too bright. Don’t stand out. Don’t want too much. Because wanting is dangerous.
I’m GR. And if this is your first time reading me, welcome. This might make you uncomfortable before it makes sense — that’s a good sign.
This discomfort wasn’t born in you. It was planted.
When the Protestant pilgrims left Europe in search of new lands and founded what would become the United States, they carried with them a radically different theology: salvation through work, dignity in productivity, and divine approval expressed through material success. The "American Dream" wasn’t just a slogan — it was a doctrine. The land was new, the laws were theirs, and the promise was clear: work hard, build something, prosper. Money was not the enemy — it was the reward.
But Latin America followed a different path. When the Iberian powers — Spain and Portugal — arrived to colonize these lands, their aim wasn’t freedom. It was control. Resources, land, obedience. They imposed Catholic doctrine with iron discipline. The Church became the landowner, the judge, the teacher, the kingmaker. And the narrative it spread was convenient: poverty is virtuous. Wealth is corrupt. Obey, sacrifice, wait. Your treasure is in heaven, not here. Meanwhile, the Church grew rich. The people stayed poor. And the system remained untouched.
Over time, this logic soaked into generations. The landless saw themselves as undeserving. The ambitious felt guilty. Entire countries were shaped around the worship of humility and the suspicion of success. People learned to moralize their lack — and to vilify those who escaped it.
You don’t grow up hearing this explained. You absorb it. In Latin-rooted cultures, money is rarely discussed with neutrality. Some families teach shame around it. Others silence. In many cases, if someone gets too rich, people don’t ask how — they assume the worst.
This isn’t about logic. It’s about narrative. We’ve inherited a story that makes wealth feel incompatible with goodness. That confuses guilt with virtue. That makes self-respect look like arrogance. And it keeps generations afraid to own their own value.
Some people never notice this tension. Others live under it for years — feeling discomfort with their own ambition, sabotaging themselves quietly, afraid of becoming "one of them." But what if the real danger isn’t wealth, but inherited shame?
We were told to love the humble, but we weren’t taught how to be powerful with dignity. We were told to admire the poor, but we weren’t trained to rise with clarity. We were told that wanting was greed, but we were never told that repression can rot the soul.
The point isn’t to glorify money. It’s to remove the fear of it. To understand that wealth — when earned with presence, intelligence and impact — can be beautiful. Can be generous. Can be transformative. And more than anything, it can be used.
Used to create.
Used to protect.
Used to express who you are — on your terms.
That’s what we do here. At Golden R., we wear clarity. We move with purpose. We don’t explain our presence — we refine it. Our community doesn’t complain about the rules. We learn how they work. And then we write new ones.
If this struck a chord in you — if this unease with wealth finally has a name — you’re in the right place.
Join the Golden R. Community.
Here, we don’t fake it. We live it. With clarity, with purpose, with criteria.
— GR.
