There's a quiet trap in being around inherited things — money, status, networks, even ideas that were really someone else's. They feel like yours because they're in your hands. They aren't. This ayah draws the line. *Laysa lil-insāni illā mā saʿā.* Nothing belongs to a person except what he actually strove for. Not what he was handed, not what he was born into, not what he stumbled on. What he sweated for. I read this less as a rebuke and more as a reassurance. The thing you're slowly, painfully building right now — the one nobody sees yet, that doesn't show up on a resume, that hasn't paid off — that one is *yours.* The shortcuts are not.