There’s a question that sometimes slips into quiet conversations or late-night musings: What would you do if money didn’t matter?

It’s the kind of question that catches you off guard, because most of us are so conditioned to measure our choices by paychecks, promotions, and pensions. We spend our days tethered to clocks and calendars, balancing between survival and ambition. But peel away the weight of bills and obligations, and you’re left with something raw, something honest: desire without compromise.

And when I sit with that question, my heart doesn’t whisper about corner offices or shiny titles. It longs for work that feels less like a transaction and more like a translation of who I really am. If money didn’t matter, these are the three jobs I’d give myself to—without hesitation, without apology.

1. Writing: My First and Last Love

If money disappeared as a deciding factor, I’d still choose writing. Always writing.

For me, writing is not about filling pages—it’s about filling the soul. It’s the only place where I can wrestle with grief and come out with grace, where I can turn loneliness into connection, where I can take something fragile and make it eternal with ink.

If I could write without worrying about how it would sell, I’d write stories as raw as broken glass and as soft as lullabies. I’d write novels that linger like old songs, essays that make strangers feel less alone, reflections that name the things we’re often too afraid to say out loud. I’d write until the world itself felt like a book, waiting to be read line by line.

Because to me, writing is not a career—it’s a lifeline. A way of being. A rebellion against silence. And I know that even if no one were reading, I’d still be here, stringing words together, because writing is the truest thing I know how to do.

2. Traveling the World, Critiquing Places

If money were no object, I’d pack lightly and live largely. Not as a tourist chasing landmarks, but as a traveler chasing truths.

I would wander through Tokyo’s neon chaos and write about how discipline and disorder somehow dance gracefully together. I would sit in a hidden café in Rome, tasting cappuccinos so perfect they ruin all others, and tell you how sometimes love is found in the smallest cups. I’d walk through Marrakech markets, let the spices stain my clothes, and remind myself that the world will always smell of both hunger and abundance.

My dream job wouldn’t be to “consume” the world, but to critique it—to notice the soul of a place. To ask: What does this city teach us about humanity? What does this corner of the earth whisper about belonging?

Because every place has a lesson: some will teach you patience, others will break your heart, and a few will change the way you see forever. And I would write them all down, not as guides for travelers, but as maps for the human spirit.

3. Keeper of an Animal Sanctuary

And when the wandering is done, I’d want to come home—not to skyscrapers, not to accolades, but to animals.

I imagine acres of land where cats curl by sunlit windows, dogs run wild with no fear of chains, donkeys and goats graze lazily, and rescued birds find songs again. A sanctuary where the broken are mended, where creatures once abandoned are finally safe.

Because animals teach us what we forget: that love does not need performance, that presence is enough, that loyalty is sacred. To care for them would not feel like labor but like worship—an offering back to the world that has given me so much.

What This Question Teaches Me

The more I think about this, the clearer it becomes: the work I long for is not measured in currency but in meaning.

Writing would let me heal and connect.
Traveling would let me learn and share.
Caring for animals would let me love without condition.

If money didn’t matter, I’d choose work that heals in three directions—toward myself, toward others, and toward the world.

And maybe that’s the hidden lesson behind the question:

that the jobs we’d choose without money are the ones that already carry pieces of our soul. They reveal who we are when no one is keeping score.

So perhaps the challenge isn’t waiting for “someday” when bills no longer dictate our days. Perhaps the challenge is to carve pieces of that dream into the present—to write even when tired, to travel even in small ways, to care for the creatures already entrusted to us.

Because if money didn’t matter, I know what I’d do.
And maybe the more important question is: Why wait until then?