I grew up in Alabama, where life was simple because it had to be. There wasn’t much money, there wasn’t much space, and there definitely wasn’t much room for pretending things were better than they were. My family of four lived in a one-bedroom apartment, all of us tucked into a space that felt smaller every year, but still somehow held everything we needed. This is the beginning of my lesson on the value of nothing.

Back then, I didn’t think of it as a struggle. It was just life. You make do. You share the same room. You stretch groceries. You pass clothes down; mine down to my little brother. You learn early that some things aren’t a given: comfort, privacy, quiet. Wanting too much felt like asking for trouble, so you don’t. You keep your head down, stay grateful for what you do have, and keep moving.

As a Black kid in the South, you also learn that “having nothing” doesn’t just describe money. It describes opportunity. It describes expectation. It describes how the world sees you before you ever get the chance to say who you are. You learn to navigate that, too.

But what sticks with me most from those years isn’t the lack, but what the lack taught me.

When you grow up with almost nothing, you develop a radar for value. Real value. Not the things people show off, but the things that actually change your life.

The first time I got something that was truly mine, whether it was money I earned, a space of my own, or a chance I hadn’t had before, I felt it differently than people who never went without. I understood immediately what it meant. Not because someone explained it, but because nothing had already taught me the lesson.

There’s a certain clarity that comes from starting small. You don’t waste things. You don’t take people for granted. You don’t confuse status with stability. You don’t treat comfort like a birthright. You notice the small upgrades: a door that closes completely, a bed that’s yours alone, a kitchen full of your favorite foods.

And you appreciate them in a way that never fades.

Growing up in that one-bedroom apartment gave me a kind of foundation money can’t buy. It taught me discipline, awareness, humility, and gratitude before I even knew those were skills. It taught me that “something” hits different when you’ve started from “nothing.”

And now, whenever I reach a new level in life, a better job, a better home, more freedom, more stability, I don’t see it as just an achievement. I see it in contrast to where I came from. I see that one-bedroom apartment. I see my family making it work. I see how far I traveled without starting on level ground.

That’s why I value everything I have now.

Because I remember what it felt like to have nothing.

And once you know that feeling, you never forget the difference.

In the end, the truth is simple:

Nothing is one of life’s greatest teachers.
Cruel.
Unwanted.
Unforgiving.

But honest.

It strips you down so that later, when you finally begin to build, you understand the architecture of gratitude.

Because you can’t fully cherish something until you’ve held nothing.
You can’t feel the weight of abundance until you’ve carried emptiness.
And you cannot truly understand value until life has, at least once, left you with nothing.

Empty hands teach full hearts.
Every single time.

— James Burge
Author of The Shape of Ordinary