A Home in Back Bay: How I Found Wealth for Free in One of Boston’s Most Expensive Neighborhoods

Written By: June Rezendes ’27

Edited By: Angelica Marin ‘27

There’s a dock on the Esplanade, half-hidden by willows and frequented by more geese than people, where I’ve spent more hours studying its unique ambiance than I have my psych material. It’s not mine in any legal sense—but in thought, in memory, in solitude—it belongs to me just as much as any brownstone along Commonwealth Avenue belongs to its rightful owner.

For over a century and a half, the carefully-crafted, historic townhouses that rule over Beacon Street and Comm Ave have been symbols of Boston’s generational wealth, rich history, and deep sense of community. But the wealth I found nestled in Back Bay wasn’t born out of property deeds or an inherited  townhouse. Rather, it snuck up on me in the form of dappled sunlight, the sensation of warm wood planks beneath me, and time for introspection. No matter what part of the dock my five-foot-eight self monopolized, I was certain to find the wealth of time and serenity in a city that never stops moving.

The first few months of my dock visits were crucial in accumulating wealth—and, like many investment projects, they came with market volatility; in other words, the dock was occasionally plagued with my agitation rather than my serenity . In an effort to remove myself from the staticity of life and schoolwork, I wandered along the Charles, accidentally stumbled upon the dock, and angrily plopped down on the rightmost corner. “Agitated me” was not aware of the wealth I was rejecting in these moments. I was closed off to the Earth’s offerings, craning my neck to the small cracks in the surface beneath me where I focused only on the discomfort raiding my brain as the same four songs blared in my headphones.  

In the dock and my early stages, despite my persistent rejection of all its offerings, it didn’t fail to offer me comfort and familiarity. Over time, my visiting hours were not just reserved for moments of escape and commiseration, they became accompanied by a more open-minded, serene version of me. Rather than shrinking into the small world I created for myself, I stripped my headphones, rubbed my eyes, and watched the Charles River breathe, listening to oars slicing water, runners’ footsteps fading on the path behind me, and eventually, to silence. That moment cost nothing, but gave me everything: time, somatic meditation, wealth, and my first deep breath in a long time. 

Since then, visiting the dock has become a ritual. In a city environment where space is a luxury, I’ve claimed my small square of wooden planks and river breeze. My richest visits aren’t always the longest or most elaborate. I have considered myself wealthiest when I bring nothing but myself with barely enough time to watch the entirety of the red line cross over the Charles. Regardless, each visit reminds me that wealth isn't always something you accumulate monetarily,  sometimes it’s something you access freely, quietly, and consistently. 

In a neighborhood–and even a world–driven by ambition and measured by status, I am wealthy not because of a street number or salary, but because of the serenity and peace I have built from breath, water, and moments of solitude. And in that, I’ve considered myself one of the richest people in Back Bay.