Chasing Appearances Over Sunsets, Losing Presence: What Travel Taught Me About America’s Financial Illusion

As I travel, I observe- not just the sights and sounds, but how people live. How they move, spend, connect. And time and time again, I come back to the same realization: I have never been to a country that obsesses over appearances the way America does.

We carry it with us, literally. The bag we tote. The label on our shoes. The outfit perfectly curated for Instagram. But beyond the fabric and fashion, there’s something deeper at play: an identity crisis rooted in consumerism.

Don’t get me wrong, places I’ve traveled, like London (especially affluent areas like Mayfair), are full of wealth, charm, and etiquette. Even among the rich, there’s a distinction: status and stature aren’t just about what you wear or drive, they’re about how you carry yourself. In many places abroad, people live within their means. If you can’t afford an $80,000 SUV, you simply don’t drive one. You walk, ride a bike, take the metro/tube, or perhaps are fortunate enough to have a personal car but within your means. And there’s no shame in it.

One of the most distinguished markers of class I’ve come to notice abroad isn’t brand, but cleanliness and poise. A tucked-in shirt. Polished shoes. Tailored pants that skim the top of the shoe instead of bunching at the ankle. These subtle cues say more about upbringing and stature than any designer label ever could. To me, it wasn't about wealth through logos in the wealthiest parts of London but about poise and presence. How one carried themselves. Status there was not something you purchased but something perhaps taught. Inherited. Practiced.

In America, it is often one may drive what they can’t afford just to look like they can. We have somewhat created a false class.

According to a 2024 Lending Club report, 62% of Americans live paycheck to paycheck, including nearly 50% of those earning six figures. The pressure to keep up appearances is so deeply embedded that financial stress is considered normal, even expected.

We aren’t building wealth; we’re building illusions my loves.

We finance (not buy) cars that depreciate the moment we leave the lot. In fact, the average new car payment in the U.S. hit a record $738/month in 2023, with auto loan delinquencies climbing to their highest level in over a decade (Federal Reserve Bank of New York). And the middle class? Many are now house-poor or car-poor, pouring over half of their income into monthly bills just to maintain the look of a lifestyle. What is happening here?

Meanwhile, the happiest people I’ve met? They live in communities with no luxury cars, no designer bags, often no personal vehicles at all. But they have joy. Connection. Pride. Peace. In countries where modesty and simplicity aren’t stigmatized, people seem to have more emotionally, while owning far less materially.

I went to Europe this time with no agenda, no confirmation bias. Just an extended layover. I simply observed. The airport wasn’t full of Louis Vuitton carry-ons or flashy logos. The locals wore polished, understated clothes with unknown brands. They looked clean, composed, present. And their streets? Small cars. Compact lives. Purposeful movement. The luxury vehicles were at the luxury hotels, where they belong. Not in middle-class neighborhoods where debt masks desire.

I then traveled from Europe to Africa. And once again, it never fails. In some of the poorest areas, I was met with the richest hearts. Those who have the least are always the first to give something, if only a smile. There is an unmistakable sense of presence in places where survival, not appearance, is the focus. The simplicity strips away the noise. And in that silence, life speaks loudest.

((And just to be clear, I’m not talking about everybody. These are simply observations, patterns I notice as a whole. Of course, there are people everywhere who live intentionally and modestly, and people everywhere who don’t. But culturally, the contrast stands out.))

In some parts of the world, class is recognized by how someone walks, how they speak, or even something as simple as whether or not they’ve bathed. Meanwhile, in other places, we feel invisible unless we’re carrying a thousand-dollar bag. That contrast is haunting. It says a lot about what we think we need to be “seen”—and what we’ve forgotten it means to simply be known.

And that’s the real problem. In America, the middle class is disappearing, not just because of economic shifts, but because of a psychological one. Yet many remain disillusioned, believing that presidents or gas prices are to blame. What a trick. Our problem isn’t always an external one. Sometimes we need to go internal and see what’s there.

I feel we’ve traded long-term security for short-term validation. We teach our kids to dream big but model a life built on financial strain. We swipe the card instead of asking if the purchase adds value or just adds noise.

And here’s the truth no one wants to say out loud: when you’re on your deathbed, you won’t be counting the designer bags, the fancy cars, or the number of likes on your posts. You’ll be replaying the moments you had. The people you loved. The kind of person you were. All those things you bought? Many will end up donated, sold, or forgotten. The cars you sacrificed time and peace to afford? Likely traded in for the next debt exchange—now old and rusty. They won’t matter. I promise.

So ask yourself, my loves—what will?

Maybe it’s time we stop trying to impress people who aren’t paying our bills and start asking what truly makes us happy. Because from what I’ve seen, the answer doesn’t live in a brand name. It lives in simplicity. In presence. In enough.

Photography has become such a sacred practice for me, especially while traveling. It allows me to stop time, to witness what’s real, and to hold space for a moment as it is, not how we wish it looked. Some of my favorite images I’ve ever taken came from the Agafay Desert. No distractions. No flashy colors or metals. Just the rawness of dirt, earth, light, and life.

In a world obsessed with more, I’m beginning to find meaning in less. A sliver of light on a dune. The texture of silence. The unspoken warmth in a stranger’s eyes. Through my lens, I’m reminded: real beauty doesn’t scream for attention or beg to be noticed. It simply is.

It was in the desert that I finally understood the meaning of a façade. In myself, in society, in the illusion of ‘more.’ As I watched the heat dance across the horizon, the mirage reminded me how often we chase what isn’t real only to see what is next. How often we mistake shimmer for substance. In that moment, I realized: a façade isn’t just something built to deceive others, it’s something we construct to convince ourselves.

Here are a few of those moments captured—not for perfection, but for presence.

Love you, B