Back in early 2020, before everything went sideways with COVID, the typical American house sold for around $329,000. By the end of 2022, that same kind of house was going for close to $480,000. That's not normal "appreciation" from a hot market. That's inflation on steroids. And it didn't happen by accident.

The Federal Reserve created roughly $5 trillion in new money between March 2020 and early 2022, ballooning its balance sheet from about $4 trillion to nearly $9 trillion. Very little of that money ever reached ordinary people. Instead, it flooded into banks and financial markets, driving up the price of stocks, bonds, and real estate. If you already owned those assets, you made out like a bandit. If you were renting, saving for a down payment, or living paycheck to paycheck, you just got quietly crushed.

This isn't some wild conspiracy. It's basic monetary economics playing out in real time, and most folks never saw it coming because it's wrapped in boring terms like "quantitative easing" and "balance sheet expansion." But strip away the jargon, and what's left is a massive transfer of wealth from the have-nots to the haves.

The pandemic hit, economies locked down, and markets panicked. The S&P 500 plunged 34% in a single month, bottoming out around 2,237 in March. Businesses shuttered, unemployment spiked, and it looked like we were heading for another Great Depression.

The Fed could have let the chips fall. Let overleveraged companies fail, let asset prices crash to realistic levels, and allow a painful but quick reset. Instead, they did what they've done in every crisis since 2008: turn on the money printer.

On March 15, 2020, they slashed interest rates to zero and announced unlimited quantitative easing. Unlimited. They would buy as many Treasury bonds and mortgage-backed securities as it took to keep markets afloat.

Quantitative easing sounds complicated, but it's simple. The Fed creates new dollars digitally and uses them to buy bonds from banks and other institutions. The banks get fresh cash, the Fed gets the bonds, and suddenly there's a ton more money chasing the same assets. Asset prices moon, banks are happy, and Wall Street breathes a sigh of relief.

In just two years, the Fed added about $5 trillion to its balance sheet. That's more new money than had been created in decades.

Not to you or me.

It went straight to financial institutions. With trillions in new cash, banks and big investors went shopping, for stocks, corporate bonds, real estate, you name it. Lending to regular people or small businesses? Too risky when everything was shut down. So they piled into assets instead.

The results were predictable:

• The stock market recovered insanely fast. From the March 2020 low, the S&P 500 more than doubled by the end of 2021, closing the year above 4,700.
• Home prices exploded. Median sales price jumped 46% from Q1 2020 to Q4 2022.
• Wages? They barely budged in real terms. Median household income crept up maybe 10-15% nominally, but after inflation, most people were worse off.

Imagine you're 28 in 2019. You've been grinding, saving $1,000 a month, and you've got $30,000 put away for a house. Houses in your area run about $330,000. You figure another couple years and you'll have the $66,000 needed for a solid 20% down payment.

Then the pandemic hits. The Fed prints trillions. Money floods into housing. By 2022, that $330,000 house costs $480,000. Now you need almost $100,000 down.

You kept saving through the chaos, maybe added another $20,000 or $25,000. You've got $50,000 or $55,000 in the bank. Congrats, you're further from buying a home than you were before the pandemic started. Your savings didn't vanish, but they buy a lot less house. Meanwhile, your landlord (or some private equity firm) just watched their property value soar, and your rent probably jumped 30%.

That's the theft in action. It's not that someone broke into your account. It's that your dollars lost purchasing power while asset owners got a windfall.

The wealthy, of course. People with big stock portfolios or multiple properties could borrow against them at near-zero rates and buy even more assets. Leverage on steroids.

During 2020-2022, the wealthiest Americans saw their net worth explode. Billionaires added trillions collectively. The top 10% captured the vast majority of new wealth created.

The bottom 50%? They got the inflation without the asset gains. Higher rent, higher groceries, higher gas. Eggs up 70% at one point, used cars up 40%, rent in many cities up 25-30%. Official CPI said around 18-20% cumulative inflation from 2020 to 2023, but for most families it felt like 30-40% on the stuff they actually buy every day.

And here's the kicker: prices don't come back down. Inflation slows, but the higher prices stick. That $2,000 rent isn't dropping to $1,500 anytime soon. Your purchasing power is permanently lower.

This isn't new. It's called the Cantillon effect, after an 18th-century economist who noticed that when new money enters the economy, the people closest to the spigot benefit most.

Banks and Wall Street are right next to the Fed's money printer. They get the fresh dollars first, buy assets cheap (relatively), watch prices rise, then the money trickles down to wages, by which time everything costs more. Workers get raises of 3-5%, but their costs are up 30%. Net losers, every time.

Their Mandate?

Officially, the Fed has a dual mandate: maximum employment and stable prices. In practice, they've interpreted "stable prices" as 2% inflation, and they've prioritized propping up asset markets in every crisis.

They call it the "wealth effect." If stocks and homes go up, owners feel richer and spend more, which supposedly juices the economy. Great if you own assets. If you don't, you just pay more for everything.

The Fed isn't some neutral referee. It's a quasi-private institution with deep ties to the banks it regulates. Regional Fed banks are literally owned by member banks. Chairs and governors cycle in and out of Wall Street jobs. When push comes to shove, they protect the financial system first, ordinary people second (if at all).

Absolutely. They could have let markets correct. Painful short-term, but we'd have affordable housing again in a few years.

Or, crazy idea, they could have sent the money directly to people. Divide $5 trillion by 330 million Americans and that's $15,000 per person, $60,000 for a family of four. Sure, some would go to assets and push prices up, but at least regular folks would have gotten a seat at the table.

Instead, the system funneled it through banks. They bought first. You paid later.

Home prices have cooled a bit from their 2022 peak, but they're still way above pre-pandemic levels, around $440,000 median today. Mortgage rates are high, making monthly payments brutal. A generation is priced out, renting forever to corporate landlords who scooped up houses with cheap debt during the frenzy.

The Fed finally hiked rates to fight the inflation they created, but the damage is done. Prices are sticky upward. Wages never caught up. The wealth gap is wider than it's been since the Roaring Twenties.

This wasn't bad luck. It was policy. The Federal Reserve chose to inflate assets to save the financial system, knowing full well it would crush everyone else with inflation.

The scary part? They'll do it again next crisis. Because the system is built that way.

If you're young, working hard, and feel like the ladder got pulled up just as you reached for it, now you know why. It's not you. It's the money printer, and who gets first dibs on the new cash.

The only way to protect yourself? Understand the game. Own assets when you can. Because as long as this system exists, labor gets devalued and ownership gets rewarded. Harsh truth, but ignoring it just guarantees you'll be on the losing side next time.