In the vast literature on human fulfillment, few questions prove as persistent—or as persistently misunderstood—as the source of what we might call inner wealth. Why do some people radiate a certain fullness of being while others, often despite immense external success, describe themselves as empty or impoverished in some essential way?

The conventional answer, deeply embedded in our modern therapeutic culture, suggests that inner poverty stems from insufficient reception: We weren’t loved enough, recognized enough, or validated enough. We are taught that to feel "full," we must be "filled" by others.

However, those who have stood at the threshold of life—those who have undergone near-death experiences (NDEs)—frequently tell us something strikingly different. When they undergo a life review, they don’t evaluate their journey by how much they received or how often they felt "good." They don’t ask if they were sufficiently validated. Instead, they ask a much more piercing question: "Was I good for something? What was I good for?"

They measure the weight of their lives by what they shared and sent out into the world—even things that seemed infinitesimally small at the time: a kind word to a stranger, a listening ear during a friend’s crisis, or a moment of patience when it was least expected. They look at what they gave, not what they took. This shift in perspective is more than just a poignant observation; it is a fundamental psychological law that Viktor Frankl, the father of Logotherapy, articulated decades ago.

The Wisdom of a Ninety-Year-Old

I had the great fortune, as a student, to hear Viktor Frankl’s final two lectures at the Vienna Medical School. He was nearly ninety years old at the time and almost blind—yet he was vibrating with life, possessed by a fierce will to pass something vital to the next generation.

His message stood in stark contrast to the prevailing psychological theories of the time, which often focused on our dependence on what we receive from our environment. Frankl spoke instead of a great freedom—and a profound liberation—that occurs when we stop looking at what we are "owed" and start looking at what we can contribute to a situation and, ultimately, to our own biography. He suggested that our inner wealth is not built by what we demand from life, but by what we are prepared to give.

There is a deeper psychological layer to this, illustrated by a teaching tale from Frankl’s most prominent student (and my own teacher in Logotherapy), Elisabeth Lukas.

The Two Travelers: A Study in Intent

Imagine an elderly woman walking a path between two villages, carrying a heavy basket of pears from her garden. She has walked this route for decades—first for her children, then for her grandchildren. Now, in her old age, the weight strains her, yet she persists out of love.

A young man happens to be traveling the same way and catches up to her. He sees the golden pears and thinks, "Those look delicious, but she likely won’t give them away if I just ask." He formulates a strategy: "May I help you carry that basket?" he offers, thinking himself clever. The woman is grateful. Upon reaching the village, she insists he take three pears for his kindness. He accepts, congratulating himself on a successful transaction. He got what he wanted.

But now, imagine a second young man in the same situation. He sees the woman’s tremor, her persistence, the decades of love represented by her journey. Without calculation, moved by the need of the moment, he offers: "Please, let me carry that for you."

The scene unfolds identically—the same walk, the same gift of pears at the end. But everything essential has changed. The first man thinks, "Well played." The second thinks, "It was good that I was there."

The Crisis of Transaction

The crucial insight reveals itself when the circumstances change. What if the grandmother, perhaps tired or forgetful, offers no pears at all and simply says, "Thank you"?

The first man didn’t actually give; he entered a transaction. When the payment (the pears) fails to materialize, his entire framework collapses. He feels foolish, cheated, or resentful. His "wealth" was entirely dependent on the grandmother’s response.

Near-Death Experiences Essential Reads

The second man? Nothing fundamental has changed for him. The knowledge that he was there when needed—that he could help—is "untouchable." No external circumstance or lack of gratitude can rob him of his knowledge that at this time, on this day, for this person, he was good for something.

The Benevolent Economy of Meaning

How do we translate this into our everyday lives? Many people today feel emotionally impoverished and attribute this to a deficit in what they’ve received ("If only I were more loved, then I would feel whole"). But we may have it backwards: We feel empty not because we don’t receive enough, but because we give strategically rather than authentically. We often choose to live by an "Economy of Scarcity" where every interaction is a transaction. But meaning flourishes in an "Economy of Gift," where the act itself is the reward: Good that I am here.

Conclusion: A Wealth That Death Cannot Touch

In my work with those approaching the end of life, I see this recognition again and again. A life’s meaning resides in those (sometimes almost invisible) moments where one can say, "Good that I was there." It might be sitting with someone in grief, or offering encouragement when it truly mattered.

There is something enormously liberating in this approach to life. It means we don’t have to "force" the world to make us feel valuable. Meaning is always within reach, requiring only our willingness to look away from our own empty baskets and respond to the world’s need.