Firefighter Says Becoming a Millionaire Left Him Lonely

This as-told-to essay is part of Lonely at the Top, a series that examines the link between wealth and loneliness. It is based on a conversation with Jeremy Barker, founder and CEO of Murphy Door, which specializes in selling hidden doors and storage solutions. It has been edited for length and clarity.

I was only making $6.13 an hour.

I always knew I wanted to be a firefighter and started training during high school. I would have been thrilled with my career, but the shockingly low pay wasn’t what my dreams were built on — I couldn’t even afford college. I knew something had to change, so I left the firehouse and set out on my own as an entrepreneur.

Today, I’m a multimillionaire. I’m also still a firefighter — for the love of the job, not the money.

It took time to become successful

The road to get here has been full of ups and downs. In my 20s, I made great money running a company that sold garages and sheds.

Since I had too little financial education and too much interest in partying, the money I made didn’t last long. I sold the intellectual property to Home Depot, but had little to show for it. I had to live out of my car for a year after the sale.

Over the next decade, I tried to find a lucrative and fulfilling career. I sold RVs and then started working in construction, eventually founding my own construction business. That was successful until the 2008 financial crisis.

By the time I was 33, I was in a pretty dismal financial situation again. I wanted a consistent job, and I knew that fires and emergencies never go away. The pay was still low — about $380 a week — but the benefits and predictability drew me back to the fire station in 2010.

My coworkers were my family

Being a firefighter was a true brotherhood, with men and women alike. We had a sense of respect, appreciation, and guardianship for each other.

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The colleagues on my shift were my closest friends. We were always together. On our days off, we would go hunting, camping, or hiking. We even celebrated holidays as a family.

About two years after returning to my fire career, I started Murphy Door, a company that sells unique hidden doors and furniture — think, a door that looks like a bookshelf, or a folding bed that looks like a television stand.

I didn’t think I’d ever leave firefighting because I loved it so much, but I wanted a side business. I thrive under pressure.

As the company grew, it needed more of my time. I started missing outings with colleagues on my days off so that I could work on the business. Soon, they stopped inviting me.

When I became successful, I started to feel distant from my friends

Before long, I started to feel like an outsider in the firehouse. I wasn’t taking a wage from Murphy Door — I was still living on my $15.75 hourly wage as a firefighter. But by 2015, the company had broken $1 million in annual sales.

My colleagues at the firehouse started teasing me more and more about how hard I was working. I wasn’t spending as much time with them because I had different priorities — they wanted to hang out on days off, while I was always working on the business.

I felt like I had to constantly announce that I didn’t think I was better than them. I’ve never found a way to break through that.

In 2016, my fire chief asked to speak with me. He pointed out that while firefighting was taking up most of my time, since I needed to be physically present on shift, it seemed my mind was always on Murphy Door and my family.

He encouraged me to prioritize my time so that it reflected what I valued most: my company and my family. It was a hard pill to swallow because I knew he was right.

When I went home that day, only my dog greeted me — my wife and daughter didn’t even look up. My wife noticed I was frustrated and told me if I wanted to be treated like a dad, I needed to start showing up like one.

The next day, I resigned from the firehouse.

I still work 16-hour days, but I carve out time for family, too

Now that I’m 50, I have a net worth of about $150 million, but I’m still working 16-hour days. Unfortunately, resigning didn’t necessarily lead to more regular time with my family, since I just worked more on Murphy Door.

My financial means sometimes make it easier to connect with my kids. These days, it’s my kids’ busy schedules with sports and activities that make it tricky to spend time together. Still, I can take my private plane home from a meeting in time to get to one of their sports games. When we go on vacations together, I unplug with intent, so I can spend quality time with my kids and wife.

I also have a group of old friends, about three guys who are my ride or dies. We meet for coffee in a rundown diner, and we don’t talk about money or business. We ask about kids and share old stories. It’s what I miss about the firehouse.

I’m still envious of people who can be content — I’m driven even now by a lack of a sense of peace.

I want genuine, reciprocal relationships

My wealth has had a huge impact — and not always a good one — on my relationships. I hate that I have to question whether people genuinely care about me or if it’s all surface-level. I filter my relationships through that.

I love helping others, but I don’t want to always be the first person they call when they need money, especially if they haven’t tried to help themselves first. A family member recently asked me for money after telling me he’d been “lounging” lately. I just wish I could teach that guy — who is smart and physically capable — to work hard.

I’m still a part-time firefighter, and I pick up shifts every few months. I take a lot of ribbing; they’ll call me Mr. Millionaire, or ask for business or life advice. That’s OK, but sometimes I need a mentor, too.

Overall, I wish I had more reciprocal relationships in my life: people who would listen to me vent or debrief with me about a tough call as a firefighter. I just want to be the same person I’ve always been, but I can’t.