In a move that startled every spreadsheet and comforted several souls, NYU announced its most popular business class is not about mergers, acquisitions, or how to ethically circle a tax code like a raptor. It is about purpose, which the bursar now recognizes as a billable item with a mysteriously compulsory lab fee.

The course bloomed from loss into a waiting list eleven miles long, because apparently Gen Z will ignore push notifications from their bank, their landlord, and their dentist, but not from their inner compass. Admissions reports that applicants wrote essays in tears, and the tears requested deferred enrollment due to personal growth backlogs.

Lecture one begins with Return on Intention, a metric that, unlike EBITDA, you can explain to your grandmother without losing her to the Weather Channel. Then students learn how to diversify their ideals so they are not exposed to a sudden bear market in Meaning when their start-up pivots to selling artisanal sadness in cans.

By lecture three, the whiteboard reads like a wish granted by a CFO who learned to hug. Case studies include Patagonia, a food co-op in Vermont that thinks you are its cousin, and a TikTok aquarium startup where the fish negotiate labor rights. Office hours are booked by people trying to minimize their taxable despair.

Campus stores report a run on purpose-adjacent stationery, especially the purpose planner notebook, which features dot-grid pages for values mapping and a discreet pocket for receipts from the time you almost sold out and then did not.

The syllabus gently bullies students into writing quarterly letters to their future selves, cc their consciences, with footnotes on how to amortize regret. Midterm assignment: fire your impostor syndrome in a formal HR meeting, then hire curiosity as interim CEO on a 90-day plan with dental.

A guest speaker from private equity tried to short purpose and got gently asked to identify his feelings without using the word synergy. He left with a newfound appreciation for line items including kindness per invoice and goodwill that is not just an accounting mirage with a nice haircut.

During section, students swap best practices for turning dread into project management. GroupMe threads now compare the top-rated fail-proof mission statement template, and someone calibrated a Kanban board for epiphanies that arrive late but with snacks.

Traditionalists in Finance remain skeptical, insisting that purpose lacks a revenue model unless it is merchandised, bundled, and upsold in a limited edition executive bundle with a chrome-plated conscience. They have proposed a pilot program to depreciate cynicism on a straight-line schedule, assuming infinite supply.

Meanwhile, the dean launched Purpose Futures, a marketplace where you can hedge against your own day job by going long on your better angel. Early adopters claim excellent basis points in their posture, their sleep, and a mysterious new KPI called whistling while walking past fluorescent light.

Alumni asked about outcomes, then accidentally cried on the Zoom. The data show gains in navigation skill, career resilience, and that rare ability to read a mission statement without needing antacid. Also, one student founded a company that vets companies to vet their values, which is the Ouroboros of capitalism but with mindfulness breaks.

As your humble correspondent, I have reviewed the footnotes and can confirm the math: hope compounded quarterly beats dread at any horizon longer than a microwave minute. The only caveat appears in Note 12, where the syllabus warns that purpose may incur one-time charges that keep in touch, but unlike the other kind, you will be glad when they call back.