Would you rather live as a well-fed soldier or a starving artist?

Cluttered thoughts from building in sf, nyc and wandering around rome

I spent a week soloing in Rome, and I couldn’t help but draw parallels between modern technology building and the Roman Empire.

In the current world of technology, things are moving faster than ever. The advancement of tools enable builders and makers to create things at lightning speed.

In the past, it takes a whole team to build an entire product. Now, with technology at our fingertips, with just 100 characters, one can prompt an interface and start building. Even though people are no longer building grand imperial architecture, they are building their Roman empires on the internet.

“I quit my 9-5 to build my own thing”, “I dropped out of Ive league to build the idea” more and more people are willing to take a bet on starting their own thing to escape the 9 to 5, AI and tool has democratize building software.

After spending a few years working in big tech in San Francisco, followed by a year working on a consumer app in New York City, my circle has naturally split in two: about half work at massive tech companies (Meta, Google, Amazon, etc.), and the other half are founders, solopreneurs, or early-stage startup builders.

I’ve spent a lot of this year observing a builder’s and founder’s experience. They’re living completely different lifestyles, both physically and spiritually.

As I stumbled by the Swiss Guards protecting Vatican City, I couldn’t stop thinking about how these roles mirror different ways of building.

In this modern renaissance, would you rather build for a powerful, flourishing kingdom as a well fed soldier or create your own canvas from scratch as a starving artist?

The Well-Fed Soldier

Working for a tech giant is like being a soldier in a highly organized legion.

You are in charge of a tiny corner of the kingdom. It could be the most successful kingdom, and role guards the corner of the kingdom. You have an army of people hyper-fixated on improving a corner of the corner of the software. A general’s command impacts the whole chain of soldiers under them: from guarding this castle to attacking the other kingdom’s territory. Commands flow downward. A general’s decision ripples through layers of management and engineers, designers, and PMs. You execute a strategy that’s far bigger than you.
In return, you’re well-fed. Good food, good wine, and a comfortable life: health insurance, equity that actually means something, 401k matching, free meals, gym memberships. Your résumé carries weight. Other kingdoms want you.

There’s safety here but also distance. You’re contributing to something massive, yet your ownership of the outcome is diluted, and starvation comes spiritually. If the kingdom shifts direction tomorrow, your corner may disappear overnight.

The Starving Artist

Founding your own startup is like choosing the life of an artist.

You begin with a blank canvas and a question only you feel compelled to answer. You decide what to create, why it matters, and whether it deserves to exist at all. From the first sketch to the final stroke, problem definition, research, design, code, distribution, you shape every part of the work. You manage the entire landscape of the product. Starting from what problem to solve, research, building every single little component, Go-to-Market, etc. You build everything from a tiny idea in your head from 0 → 1. You decide what problem to solve, what it should look like, how it works, and how it reaches the world. You take an idea from a thought in your head to something real that people can see or touch.

At the same time, you drain your savings, you work 80-hour weeks and the loneliness is real. Most days, it’s just you and your laptop. And somewhere between sunk-cost fallacy and overconfidence effect, you keep going. You might spend years building something no one wants, or you might be the next Da Vinci, breaking through after the very next iteration. The uncertainty never truly goes away. But in exchange, you’re constantly tested, stretched, and without realizing it; spiritually sharpened by the challenge.

The freedom is intoxicating. You learn faster than you ever imagined because you have to. You feel alive in a way that’s hard to describe. When someone uses your product and tells you it solved their problem, it feels deeply personal, pure creation, directly from your hands.

I Thought Starving Meant I Was Working Hard

I spent months this year testing that theory myself.

I isolated myself. Not financially, but spiritually. I stopped seeing friends. I stayed at home for most of the time. I planning for things that wasn’t work or project. I told myself this was the price of building something meaningful.

Founder stories often glorify this monk-mode existence.

Sitting in Rome, watching people live their lives surrounded by centuries of empire-building history, I started questioning that belief.

Did Leonardo da Vinci lock himself away from the world? Or did he live, connect, and observe the very life he was trying to capture?

I was burning out and following a story I’d inherited the idea that deprivation is proof of seriousness, that suffering is a prerequisite for meaningful work.

The Myth of the Starving Artist

We romanticize the concept of a starving artist: the genius suffering in obscurity, creating masterpieces while broke. It’s a comforting story: it makes risk feel noble and failure feel poetic. Can we really create while we’re starving? Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs would say: not for long.

As I dig into in, Da Vinci wasn’t starving. He had patrons. He worked for the Medici family, the Duke of Milan, and the King of France. He was well-paid, well-fed, and deeply connected. He didn’t choose between art and survival he figured out how to do both.

Michelangelo had the Pope. Shakespeare had the Globe Theatre and royal patronage. Even the punk rockers we think of as anti-establishment figured out how to tour, sell albums, and pay rent.

When basic needs like food safety and stability aren’t met the mind turns inward toward survival. Creativity doesn’t vanish but it tightens. Maslow understood this instinctively.

I began spending time with friends again, long walks, getting dinner together, hanging out, working side by side. The work came more naturally and more productive. The work began to breathe again. It arrived more easily more honestly. I was no longer starving myself of the life that made creation feel worth it.

In the modern world, self-actualization is more visible and amplified than ever. Social media, startup culture, and the creator economy encourage ideas like follow your passion, quit your job, and build in public. For some this urgency feels electric. For others it means learning how to carry ambition before stability. The trade offs become a choice.

Maybe ambition isn’t about how large the thing becomes but how long you can remain curious while building. How long you can keep your body fed your friendships close and your mind open enough to notice the world you are trying to shape.

Maybe the answer is simpler than we make it.

Building isn’t about immortality or endless accumulation. It is definitely not about whether it’s more noble to work at a tech giant or to start your own company. It’s about choosing a challenge that excites you while you’re here. It’s about how you build something meaningful while keeping the lights on.