I have trouble reconciling the enjoyment of luxury when there’s so much suffering in the world.

I often have an internal dialogue about this, shaped by my background. I grew up in a financially unstable environment—one where I had to claw for progress. By many measures, I’ve done well since then: a good school, a solid career, and a deepening artistic path alongside it. What’s not to love?

And yet, there’s tension. Around me, I see an enjoyment of luxury that rubs my younger self the wrong way. I was scrappy growing up. Eating out was painful. I’d go out with friends and sometimes not eat, just to save money. I’d stretch every dollar. I’d even wear clothes inside out because laundry felt too expensive. Those habits left traces that still live inside me.

So when I see others, or myself, indulging in comfort, something in me tightens.

a room with marble and mixed feelings

Right now, I’m sitting in a five-star hotel in Singapore—the Grand Hyatt. It’s a work trip, fully within budget, company-paid. Still, it feels surreal.

The room is spacious. The bathroom is marble. The bed is huge and impossibly comfortable. The staff are kind, attentive. I haven’t even explored the gym or spa yet, but I already feel the pull of luxury.

And at the same time, I think: it would be lovely to share this experience with someone I love. To take a vacation, maybe even stay at Marina Bay Sands—the hotel with the rooftop infinity pool, where rooms start around $800 a night. The younger me hears that number and balks.

“Why would you spend $300 or $800 on a hotel? You can stay somewhere perfectly fine for $100. You’ll be out most of the time anyway.”

He’s not wrong. I just moved from a cheaper hotel that was entirely fine—small, clean, practical. But I can’t deny that this feels different. Softer. Easier. Maybe I just haven’t reconciled that this is something I like, something I can afford, even while remembering that many others can’t.

a lens from faith: Huqúqu’lláh

The Bahá'í Faith has an interesting mechanism for this kind of tension: Huqúqu’lláh, or the “Right of God.” It’s something like a voluntary luxury tax—19% on wealth accumulated above what is necessary for living. It excludes essentials like your primary home, furniture, food, caregiving—anything required to live.

What’s powerful is that it’s self-determined. No one enforces it. It’s between you and the Divine. And it must be given willingly. Reluctant giving doesn’t count.

I love that. It guards the spirit of generosity rather than enforcing it. It’s a mechanism that allows you to enjoy your wealth, but only after ensuring that you’ve given thoughtfully.

Still, for me, something feels unresolved. Maybe the younger version of me still whispers, “It’s not fair. There are people suffering. Why should you enjoy this?”

giving as a way to reconcile enjoyment

Maybe what I need is to give more of myself to feel at peace with enjoying what I have. That could mean volunteering, donating, or building something that helps others grow.

I’ve long dreamed of creating a program that connects young musicians—especially those without means—to non-Western music traditions. To help them travel, learn Indian classical or flamenco or Brazilian music, and return to share that knowledge. That idea feels rich and purposeful. It feels like a way to let wealth circulate, to move through me rather than stop with me.

the skill of staying lean

Still, I don’t want to make luxuriating a habit. There’s a skillfulness in staying lean, in not needing luxury to enjoy life. Maybe constant comfort dulls our appreciation. I don’t want that. I want to be someone who can find joy in the simple and the grand, in both scarcity and abundance.

finding balance

Maybe there’s a kind of contract we can make with ourselves—a reconciliation point between giving and enjoying. We give, so that we can enjoy without guilt. We enjoy, knowing that what we’ve taken is balanced by what we’ve returned.

Because energy shouldn’t just move one way. It shouldn’t be all take take take, nor all give give give. Both extremes cause imbalance—spiritual malaise on one side, resentment on the other.

Instead, maybe there’s a rhythm we can trust. A reciprocal flow between us and the world, where giving and receiving are part of the same healthy cycle.

When that flow is there, we feel whole.