Some people at One Wealth would say I am food motivated. I would probably agree.
A good meal, a sweet treat — I indulge when I can. I move my body a lot, and I’ve decided that justifies it most of the time. But if I’m being honest, it goes deeper than that. I think it goes all the way back to a Sunday afternoon kitchen, and a woman pressing masa into perfectly round tortillas.
When I was growing up, my mom cooked a lot. Still does. But the memory that keeps coming back to me this time of year is this one: I’d have a soccer game in the morning, usually somewhere out of town. Come home, freshen up, and before I even got to the kitchen I could already smell it. The grill outside going, a little smoky. A giant pot of beans on the stove — soaked overnight, simmering slow. And my mom at the kitchen island, working a giant bowl of masa with her hands like she’d done it a thousand times.
I’d walk up, hungry and already knowing exactly what was coming. She’d be pressing the masa balls into circles, laying them onto the comal, watching for the moment they’d puff up and balloon — the signal they were done. I’d ask the classic question. When’s dinner ready?
Without missing a beat, she’d peel off a fresh tortilla, smear a little butter on it, roll it up, and hand it to me. I’d take it, check the grill, and find a way to make myself useful.
I live in San Francisco now. My family is an hour by plane — or nine, depending on who’s making the trip. Close enough to feel reachable, far enough that visits don’t just happen on their own. The calls get shorter. The visits feel like they come and go faster every time. And the Sunday afternoon dinners that used to just happen — effortlessly, as if by gravity — now require calendars and coordination and someone making the drive.
This weekend, I’m making the trip down to Mexico to spend Mother’s Day with my mom, my grandma, and extended family. It took some planning, some coordinating, and yes — making the time in the middle of a busy stretch. But I already know that when I get there, none of that will matter. The table will be full, the food will be good, and for a few days the distance closes completely.
That’s the quiet tension a lot of us live with. We move toward opportunity. We build careers, grow savings, pursue the version of life we planned for. And somewhere in the middle of all that forward motion, we look up and realize that the people who shaped us most are no longer just down the hall.
This Mother’s Day, I keep thinking about what we actually mean when we talk about wealth.
We spend a lot of time in this business talking about portfolios, allocations, and long-term planning. And that work matters — deeply. A sound financial plan creates options. It creates freedom. It creates the ability to show up for the people you love without the weight of financial stress pulling at you.
But the plan was never supposed to be the point. The point is the Sunday dinner. The moment someone hands you something without you having to ask.
Those moments don’t compound in a portfolio. They live in memory. And unlike most things in finance, you cannot get them back once they’re gone.
So if you have a mother to call this weekend — call her. If you can make the trip — make it.
Just don’t overthink it.
Happy Mother’s Day.
