What Bangladesh Taught Me About Enough

In 1966, our family moved from Richmond, England, to Maryland after my father accepted a position with the World Bank—an opportunity too good to turn down. His early work took him across Africa, but in 1972 he was assigned to Bangladesh for what was meant to be a two year posting. It became four. For three young boys and our four year old sister, it proved to be an experience that stayed with us for life. During the school year, us boys were sent to boarding school in England, but holidays were spent in Dhaka or Dacca as the capital was called back in the 70’s.

Bangladesh at the time had roughly 70 to 75 million people, in a country about the size of Iowa. It had just emerged from a brutal war of independence that left infrastructure destroyed and the economy barely functioning. Poverty wasn’t something you read about, it surrounded you. Mothers cradled their malnourished babies, unable to produce breast milk. Children in torn clothes and bare feet begged at intersections. Homes were built from scraps of tin, wood, and plastic. Clean water was scarce or non existent. Illness was common with no medical care . Even living in Gulshan, one of Dhaka’s quieter neighborhoods, the contrast between our surroundings and the desperation just beyond them was impossible to ignore.

The mid-1970s brought even greater hardship. Food shortages worsened, and the famine of 1974 left lasting scars. Lines formed for rice. Malnutrition among many became more visible. There was a sense that many families were simply trying to make it through another day. As children, we didn’t fully understand the politics or economics behind it. What we understood was hunger, uncertainty, and how fragile daily life could be.

Those years quietly shaped our relationship with money. Food was never to be wasted. Having more than you needed carried an obligation. Bragging about possessions felt uncomfortable, especially when you had seen how little others had. Security, having enough food, a stable home, and some financial cushion, mattered far more than status or appearances. Generosity wasn’t theoretical—it was simply what you did when you recognized how easily circumstances could be reversed.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but those experiences formed my definition of wealth. It wasn’t about the size of a house, the car in the driveway, or the balance in an investment account. Wealth was having enough food, enough stability, and enough margin to help someone else. Everything beyond that felt like a bonus.

Bangladesh today has more than 170 million people and has made enormous progress. But the lessons from those years never left me. Whenever markets rise, spending creeps up, or comparisons tempt me, I think back to those streets in Dhaka. They remind me that money isn’t just for comfort or accumulation—it’s for security, humility, and, when possible, compassion.

Once you’ve seen how little some people live on, the goal stops being to have more. The goal becomes knowing when you already have enough.