I'm at _______ last week. Got seated at my usual table. I'm by myself, which is how I prefer it most of the time now. Thinking, reading some material on my phone, eating exceptional food without having to perform conversation.

Two tables over there's this group. Four guys, probably late twenties, finance types based on the look and the conversation about some deal closing. And they're loud. Not celebratory loud. Just loud loud. Every story gets projected to the entire room. Every laugh is performative. One of them keeps name dropping, making sure everyone can hear about something they're involved with.

I'm watching this and thinking about how I used to be adjacent to that energy. Not that loud myself, but I understood it. The need to be heard. The need to make sure people knew you existed, that you mattered, that you were doing well.

I don't have that need anymore. Haven't for a while. And I'm trying to figure out when exactly it disappeared.

It correlates almost perfectly with the first time I had real money. The kind where you stop checking prices and start making decisions based purely on what you actually want. Something shifted in me. This need to be perceived, to be acknowledged, it just evaporated.

I think noise is actually insecurity made audible. It's people who need witnesses to their existence because they're not totally convinced they exist otherwise. The volume is proportional to the doubt.

Poor people are loud because they're fighting for acknowledgment in environments where acknowledgment is scarce. Fair. Makes sense. You have to assert yourself or you disappear.

But what's interesting is watching people who made money recently. The ones who came from nothing. They're often the loudest people in expensive restaurants. New money doing the same performative volume they needed when they had nothing..

Then you watch people who've had money for a while. Old money, or people who made it and let it settle into their identity. They're quiet. Not performing quiet, just actually quiet. Speaking in normal tones. Not announcing themselves. Moving through spaces without needing everyone to know they're there.

It's not about manners or breeding or whatever classist explanation people want to give. It's about psychological security. Once you actually believe you exist, you stop needing to prove it constantly.

I see this with how people dress too. The guys at that table are wearing the uniform. Patagonia vest, Oxford shirt, expensive watch visible. The costume that says "I work in finance and make money." They need the costume because without it, who are they?

I'm wearing a plain black t-shirt and pants (Merz b. Schwanen ofc iykyk) + Patek Phillipe 5168G lowkey though. Nothing branded. Nothing signaling anything. Because I don't need people to know what I do or how much I make by looking at me. I know. That's sufficient.

Same with noise. When you're secure in your existence, you don't need to broadcast it. You can sit in a restaurant alone, speak quietly when you do speak, move through the world without constantly announcing yourself.

The people who need to be loud are the people who aren't totally sure they're real yet. Every interaction is an opportunity to prove they exist. Every conversation has to be loud enough that adjacent tables hear it and can confirm that yes, they're here, they matter, they're successful.

I understand it because I remember the tail end of feeling that way. This anxiety that if people didn't perceive you, you somehow became less real. That your existence needed constant external validation or it would somehow dissolve.

Making real money cured that completely. Not because money makes you matter. Because having money removes the desperation that makes you need to matter to strangers.

When you're broke, every interaction is high stakes. You need people to think well of you because you might need something from them. A job, a connection, an opportunity. You can't afford to be invisible.

When you have money, most interactions are low stakes. You don't need anything from the random people around you. Your existence doesn't depend on their acknowledgment. So you stop performing it.

This is why rich neighborhoods are quiet. It's not enforced. It's not manners. It's just a collection of people who don't need to prove they exist anymore. They know they exist. They've internalized it. The volume drops naturally.

I watch these guys and I can see exactly where they are psychologically. They're successful enough to be at ________ but not successful enough to sit there quietly. They still need the room to know they're doing well. Still need the performance.

Im writing about this because of an article and friend sent to me recently.

The article about rich people and quiet frames it as oppression. Rich people demanding silence to control spaces. But that's backwards. "Rich" people are quiet because they've resolved the psychological need that makes poor people loud.

It's not about culture or joy or authentic expression. It's about security. People who are secure in their existence don't need to announce it constantly. People who aren't secure need constant validation that they're here, they matter, they're doing okay.

Noise is anxiety made audible. Quiet is security made environment.

I finish my meal and leave. Walk past their table on the way out. They're still going, still loud, still making sure everyone knows they're there. I don't judge it. I remember needing that same validation. The difference is I don't need it anymore.

Not because I'm better than them. Because I finally internalized my own existence enough that I don't need strangers to confirm it for me.

My loudness comes from my naturally aspirated V10 engine.

That's what wealth actually buys. Not better things. Not nicer spaces. Psychological security sufficient that you can move through the world without constantly proving you exist.

The quiet isn't a choice or an aesthetic. It's what naturally emerges when you stop needing witnesses to your life.
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This piggybacks me into probably my next piece talking about effortless excellence. Things are perceived with much more weight when they are done with less "performance" or "effort". I learned this in baseball first and then applied this to life. Jacob deGrom is a great example of this. In my opinion one of the greatest pitchers of all time - But what stands out with him is his effortlessness in his pitching even though the ball is coming out of his hands at 100mph. It makes his by product (the fastball) look much more incredible than the guy who is grunting and aggressive when throwing.

The same applies to life.
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When you casually pull up in a supercar, casually wear a nice watch, and don't make everything about a performance, it's truly much more grand. I will walk out of a nice restaurant in Birkenstocks and shorts with wired headphones in and step into a supercar and it communicates something completely different than the guy in full designer screaming for attention. The contrast creates the weight. The understatement makes the statement.

And I'm not saying this stuff to you to sound performative. I'm saying it how it is, this is my life and I don't say these things to you to perform or prop myself up.
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I say this so that you either learn something or take something away from this that helps your life or at least how you observe things in general.
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Marked safe from performative male ✅