When I was young and just starting out, I thought I knew everything. I thought the world revolved around ambition, achievements, and accumulating as much as I could — money, power, and recognition. I believed that if I could just work hard enough, push boundaries enough, and take enough risks, I would finally reach the pinnacle of success and fulfillment. I was obsessed with ideas of progress and conquest: building companies, launching rockets, and trying to shape the future. And in the midst of all that, I heard her voice — my mother’s — but I didn’t listen.

She had tried to teach me about life in her quiet, patient way. She told me what real wealth is, and she repeated it often. “Real wealth,” she said, “is time with people who love you.” At the time, I dismissed it. I thought, How can time with people possibly compare to building something that changes the world? She continued: “Real wealth is family, not money. No amount of cash can replace the warmth of being with those who care about you.” And finally, she said, “Wealth is memories, not things. The moments you share, the laughter, the joy — that is the treasure of life.”

I didn’t understand. I thought she was old-fashioned, that she didn’t live in the modern world I was stepping into — a world where technology, ambition, and measurable achievements were what defined a person. I thought she didn’t grasp the magnitude of the risks I was willing to take, the scale of what I wanted to accomplish. I ignored her words, thinking I would prove that she was wrong, that the future I was chasing would give me something more real, something more enduring.

But life has a way of teaching you lessons — sometimes harshly, sometimes slowly, but inevitably. And over the years, I began to see the truth in what she said. I achieved far more than I ever dreamed. I built companies that reached billions of people. I had access to wealth that few could even imagine. I accomplished things that changed industries and inspired millions. And yet, something was missing.

I had the money, but I lacked connection. I had the recognition, but I felt alone. I had success, but it was accompanied by a deep, persistent emptiness. Those years I spent chasing the next milestone, the next innovation, the next deal — in doing so, I neglected the simplest, most important aspects of life. The people who loved me, the moments of genuine joy, the shared experiences that make life rich — I had taken them for granted, put them on hold, and convinced myself that I would return to them “later,” once everything else was achieved.

Now my mother is 77. I am 54. I have billions, but I also have a profound awareness of what I’ve lost in the process. The years I thought I could afford to ignore her wisdom are gone, and I can’t get them back. Every achievement reminds me of the cost: late nights, missed dinners, conversations left unfinished, laughter not shared, memories not made. I realize now that she was completely right about everything.

It is not wealth in dollars or assets that defines a life well-lived. It is the people you love, the moments you treasure, the shared experiences that leave lasting marks on your heart. Time spent with family, friends, and those who genuinely care for you is infinitely more valuable than any bank account. Memories, laughter, shared joy — those are the true assets, the ones that cannot be bought, only created and cherished.

I remember vividly the lessons I learned too late. I remember nights when I was alone in my office, staring at numbers on a screen, thinking about the millions of people my companies were reaching, but realizing that I couldn’t reach the people who mattered most to me in the simplest, human ways. I remember the birthday parties I missed, the anniversaries forgotten, the casual dinners with loved ones skipped because there was “more important work to do.” I remember the conversations I postponed, assuming I would have time later — only to realize later never comes as we expect.

Now, I try to live differently. I try to honor the lessons my mother taught me, even if it is years after I should have. I make time for family. I cherish conversations, even the small ones. I make an effort to be present in ways I once took for granted. It is not easy. The momentum of life, of work, of ambition, is relentless. But I have come to understand that true success is not measured by how high you climb, how much you own, or how famous you become. True success is measured by the richness of your relationships, the depth of your memories, and the love you are able to share.

I share this now because I hope that others will listen before it is too late. I hope young people, ambitious people, and those chasing big dreams can hear what my mother told me and understand it before they spend decades realizing it on their own. Money, fame, and accolades are temporary. The people you love and the memories you create are permanent. They are what endure long after the headlines fade, long after the stock prices stabilize, long after the world forgets your achievements.

I have billions, yes. I have achieved things most people can only dream of. But alongside that, I carry the weight of lessons learned too late. I carry the emptiness of years spent chasing the wrong kind of wealth. I carry the awareness that the most precious things in life are not commodities, and they never were.

If I could go back, I would listen more. I would prioritize presence over production, love over ledger, and experiences over earnings. I would create memories, cherish family, and value the time spent with the people who matter most. And I tell myself that it is never too late to start. I still have time, still have opportunities to nurture relationships, and still have moments to turn into memories.

So, to anyone reading this: listen to the wisdom of those who care about you. Listen to the quiet voices that remind you of what matters. Learn early that real wealth is not in bank accounts, titles, or power — it is in love, in time shared, and in the memories that make life meaningful.

My mother was right. She always was. And even though I didn’t listen at first, I am grateful for the reminder, for the chance to change how I live, and for the realization that true wealth has always been waiting for me in the simplest, most human places.