I wasn’t born into a struggle. My family was well-off. The golden spoon was there, polished and waiting, ready for me to hold it without question. But something in me resisted. I didn’t want my life to be measured in what I had inherited. I wanted it to be measured in what I had made. I didn’t want the express elevator to the top; I wanted to take the stairs, feel the burn in my legs, and know exactly how many steps it took to get there.
People talk about being “born with a golden spoon” as if it’s the only way to start strong, as if wealth and comfort automatically make the story better. Maybe for some it does. But I’ve always believed that even if you’re handed the gold, you don’t have to use it. You can pick up steel instead. Steel is heavier. It takes more effort to work with. It doesn’t shine as easily, and it carries every scratch of the journey. But steel teaches you things gold never will.
When I began my professional life, I could have chosen the easy road-leveraging my family’s name, making a few calls, walking into a role already softened by privilege. Instead, I stood where everyone else stood. I applied without name-dropping. I interviewed without mentioning who I knew. My desk wasn’t the best in the office, and the computer I got flickered at random. But those were the details I cherished, because they were mine, unassisted.
The workplace is its own version of life’s starting line. Some people enter already at the table where decisions are made; others are still searching for the door. Some have mentors on speed dial, networks built over family dinners, or schools whose names unlock respect before a single word is spoken. I had none of that-by choice. My seat was in the back at first, where the hum of the photocopier filled the silence and the coffee tasted burnt. I learned by listening more than talking. I stayed late when others left. I made mistakes that felt heavier because no one was there to shield me from their consequences.
That’s the thing about choosing steel in a golden world-you can’t fake effort. You can’t hide behind introductions. Every achievement stands alone, every failure leaves a mark you have to fix yourself. But along the way, you start developing instincts money can’t buy. You learn to read a room without being told. You sense when to speak and when to stay quiet. You adapt when the rules shift, because you’ve never relied on them being in your favor in the first place.
I’ve seen what happens when golden spoons bend under heat. When the environment turns hard, when pressure piles on, when shortcuts disappear-those who’ve never had to grip the steel often falter. They’ve never had to scrape the bottom of the pot, never had to keep stirring when their arms are tired and the food is still not ready. Steel-spoon resilience comes from exactly that-the hours, the grind, the habit of pushing through without a safety net.
It’s not about rejecting privilege or pretending it doesn’t exist. I am grateful for the comfort I was born into. But I didn’t want to live a life where the most honest thing I could say about my achievements was that I was “given the chance.” I wanted to say I took it. That I earned it. That if you stripped away the family name, the resources, and the polished pathways, the person standing there could still make something out of nothing.
The victories that come this way taste different. They don’t carry the aftertaste of doubt- Would I have gotten this without my background? because you already know the answer. They taste sharp, clean, and pure, like water after a long run. And the failures? They don’t feel like permanent stains. They feel like grit in your teeth, annoying but fueling you to bite harder next time.
Over time, I noticed something else. Steel can shine, too. It just takes longer. It demands more polish, more handling, more willingness to get your hands dirty. But when it does shine, it’s not because it was born to-it’s because you made it so. That glow carries the fingerprints of your work.
Now, years later, I still have moments where I could pick up the golden spoon. There are situations where it would make life easier, smoother, more predictable. But I’ve learned to trust the weight of steel in my hand. It reminds me of all the days I chose the harder way, all the nights I stayed back to figure out a problem myself, all the times I stood in the same line as everyone else when I didn’t have to.
And when I look at my career, my life, and my choices, I know this: gold might feed you faster, but steel teaches you to cook. Gold might get you a seat at the table, but steel teaches you to build the table from scratch. Gold is inherited; steel is earned. And for me, the satisfaction has never been in the shine—it’s in the making.
Because whether in life or in the workplace, the real story isn’t about the spoon you were handed. It’s about the one you choose to use. And I’ll keep choosing steel, every single time.