There’s a strange kind of poetry in the chaos of Wall Street. Every morning, I walk past skyscrapers that seem to hum with ambition. By the time I reach the 42nd floor, caffeine has replaced blood, and the numbers on my screen dictate the rhythm of my day. People think investment banking is all about greed and glamour — the tailored suits, the skyline offices, the champagne after a deal closes. Truth is, most days, it’s a storm of silence and spreadsheets.
I’ve seen million-dollar deals collapse over a single comma in a contract. I’ve watched young analysts burn out faster than the LED lights above their desks. And yet, in this relentless churn, there’s a certain beauty — the thrill of shaping something that can move markets, fund ideas, or even save companies from collapse.
The real test isn’t how fast you can run the numbers — it’s how long you can keep your sanity while doing it. Some nights, when the city quiets down, I catch my reflection in the window — suit, tie, exhaustion — and wonder if this is what I dreamed of when I studied finance. But then a deal comes through. The adrenaline hits. And for a moment, the world makes sense again.
New York has a way of breaking you and building you back stronger. You learn that success isn’t the number in your bonus slip — it’s the calm you maintain when everything around you is on fire.
I’ve stopped chasing perfection. Now, I chase balance — an hour at the gym before dawn, a walk through Central Park on Sundays, a phone call to my mother between meetings. Because behind every investment banker’s polished exterior, there’s a quiet war — between ambition and peace.
And maybe, just maybe, the greatest investment we ever make isn’t in markets or startups — it’s in learning when to pause in a city that never does.