A close friend of mine for many years, Tom asked if I’d be open to listening since he was angry with me. I agreed, and we set aside a few hours to talk. Tom came from a lower-class socioeconomic background, and he had a lot of anger toward what he saw as “overly entitled” people with money. I suspected this was what was bothering him, but we had a long history of listening to each other without limits — aside from the unspoken rule of not hitting below the belt.
“I’m really pissed off,” Tom began. “Because you feel like you deserve to have more money than I do.” His voice was exasperated. “Do you feel entitled to a bigger bank account because you were raised in more fortunate circumstances than I was?”
“I just feel fortunate,” I said honestly.
His anger flared even more. “You sound like all the other people with money. You feel like you have a right to it, and you don’t give a shit about how impossible life is for so many of us who suffer.”
I tried to look past his rage and understand his deeper needs. I thought to myself, He needs me to feel empathy for how hard it was to grow up without power. He wants me to admit that I’m not entitled to anything, and he probably wants me to feel his pain. Maybe he even wants me to give him some money.
“What do you want?” I asked.
His tone was dripping with annoyance. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No,” I replied simply.
“I hate your fucking entitlement,” he roared. “And I hate that you don’t even feel guilty. I hate your lack of caring about how hard it is to raise a family on thirty thousand a year.”
I was struck by the absurdity of the world we lived in, where wealth seemed so often determined by the environment you were born into, the people you knew, and the brain you were born with.
“What do you think?” Tom asked, his frustration evident.
“I think you’re right,” I said quietly, feeling humbled. At that moment, I realized that had I been born into a different situation, I might have struggled as Tom had. “I’m not entitled to more than you. I’m just more fortunate. I’m really sorry for my indifference and for avoiding my guilt. I feel badly about your situation, but I don’t think you deserve my money. I’m not even sure I deserve it either.”
I felt warm and tender toward the truth beneath Tom’s anger. What he really needed was empathy, and for me to acknowledge my “dumb luck.” At least I could agree that it was an unknown mystery why I had money and he didn’t. Tom wanted me to open my heart to his powerlessness and really feel it with him.
“Thank you for waking me up,” I said. “It’s not easy to imagine how it must feel to struggle for a lifetime. It’s uncomfortable to not feel entitled and still not want to give away what I have.”
Tom shifted. “That was exactly what I wanted to hear,” he said. “I wanted to know that you don’t feel entitled, that you do want to keep your money, and that you feel for me too. No one with more money than me has ever admitted what you just said. They’re all so full of themselves.”
I smiled. Tom had never felt the pressure and guilt of having more than someone else and being conflicted about giving until you had nothing left. But I didn’t mention that. I simply soaked in the warmth and open-heartedness that had blossomed so quickly between us.
This conversation shows how raw anger can lead to recognizing our core needs. It’s also a demonstration of the unswerving trust between friends who love each other. As difficult as it is to contain, anger can be a precious energy when we face it directly. The intent is always to uncover what we truly need.
When Tom shared his feelings with me, I gained as much from the exchange as he did. I developed a deeper understanding of entitlement and felt the dilemma of those with ineffective financial conditioning. When my heart stayed open while Tom expressed his truest feelings, it allowed him to open his heart, too.