The other day, as I was settling down after work, I had a complete meltdown over spending money. It took me over 30 minutes of tears and a grounding practice to bring me back down. Though incredibly overwhelming, this isn’t new to me. Not long ago, I had the same kind of spiral when moving into my current apartment and spending a huge chunk of money on artwork.
It’s so ingrained in me— the frugality, the hustle culture. The shame. The guilt. The constant voice on a loop recorder, replaying you shouldn’t have done that.
I picture myself shackled to a basement wall. Chained up, helpless. The outside me, the drill sergeant version of myself, is screaming in my face for even daring to spend. I’m taking vocal lashes from that version. And it’s what spending money has felt like to me for as long as I can remember.
The thing is my whole life I’ve “done everything right.” College, degree, career, homeownership. Success in all the right shapes. But while I may look traditionally successful, I am not rich in experiences.
For years I denied myself. Denied objects and comforts. In that denial I robbed myself of permission, joy, and freedom.
Now those denials are overflowing. I’m busted at the seams. My wants and needs, the ones I’ve stifled, are pouring out. People might call it a midlife crisis. But I don’t think that’s what this is. I think “midlife crisis” is a phrase invented to shame people back into capitalism, a dull chokehold.
This doesn’t feel like a crisis. It feels like a coming into myself.
I think back to when I had the most money saved. On paper, I had security and stability. In reality, it was one of the loneliest times of my life.
I was working nights in the hospital. My sleep schedule was opposite my body’s circadian rhythm. I shopped in the excruciatingly fluorescent lights at Walmart at 2 a.m., walking down empty aisles as everyone else was asleep. I barely saw my friends and family. I was isolated, unhealthy, and deteriorating.
The floor I worked on was brutal. A step-down unit that wasn’t officially labeled as one, so we never got the staffing we truly needed. Patients were ungrateful and yelling. Management stretched us thin, and the patient-to-nurse ratios were not just borderline dangerous, they simply were. I remember thinking how staying there was a major liability and potential threat to my license. Not because I didn’t care. Not because I’m a bad nurse. But just because of how chaotic and under-supported we were, in addition to the day shift/night shift rivalry. The only thing that kept me afloat was my coworkers and post-shift drinks at Rigazzi’s— one of the only local places to serve alcohol that early.
My body and sanity were wrecked. Yes, I was saving money, but at what cost? My health. My relationships. My joy. I saw money in my bank account but bankruptcy in my actual life.
It sent me straight into burnout.
I’ve come to realize that burnout isn’t a single moment. It isn’t an endpoint. It’s every single micro-moment that builds before the explosion.
EVERY
ignored need,
skipped meal,
hour of missed sleep,
missed phone call,
missed get-together,
time you swallow your exhaustion and “power through”.
When I left the townhouse I rented with my younger cousin, I had a substantial amount of money. I thought this was the perfect moment to do what everyone is told to do: buy a house.
But that “investment” turned out to be its own paradox. Because instead of building me, it drained me. It swallowed my savings. It pushed me into credit card debt. I worried more about the house than I did about myself. I poured more into fixing walls than I did into my own body. I honestly believe that house made me sick— mentally, emotionally, and physically.
I was ridiculed for the area my house was in. Judgment attacking me for buying it, and for selling it. And yet, when I sold it, I made a profit. Enough to pay off my credit card debt. Enough to pay off my car.
The house sucked the money and life out of me while I lived there. Yet, only once I stepped away did it finally give something back.
I’m not even 32 yet. But I look at my life so far and the experiences are painfully thin. I’ve only been to Florida once, in 2004. Memphis once, for my best friend’s bachelorette party. A handful of time to a few places in Missouri. I grew up in Illinois. I’ve traveled outside of the country two times— once with my family to Jamaica, which was the first time I’d ever flown. The other time on a cruise, the only once I’ve been on since. That’s it. Out of 50 states, I’ve seen maybe three.
Meanwhile, I poured everything into “success.” Into owning a home. Into making car payments. Into feeding the image of stability. If “success” were a parasite, it would be a leech, and I its host, withering away.
That’s why right now I’m hyper-fixated on buying a pop-up camper.
When I think about it, I feel this pull in my chest. Freedom. Mobility. The chance to pick up and go. To see new places, maybe meet new people, maybe build deeper connections with the people I already know. To finally living my life instead of just funding my death.
People think it’s impulsive. They think I should be saving. Saving for what? For the next house? For the retirement I may not live long enough to enjoy?
I talked to my brother about it, trying to get some practical advice about towing capacity. I asked him how much his truck could haul. And he said, “I don’t mean to pry, but do you even have the finances for this right now?”
I told him yes; I have a bit of money left over from selling my house.
Then he asked, “Well what about the next house?”
And I said, There is no next house.
He asked, “I thought you were going to rent for three years and then re-qualify for a new-homeowner’s loan?”
And I told him that was just an idea I tossed around. But when I really thought about it, I realized that’s not actually what I wanted. It was pressure. From society. From my parents. Pressure about what success is supposed to look like, with owning a home and having children being the pinnacle of pride.
I don’t believe that anymore.
I know my body. I know my health. With my chronic conditions, I likely won’t have a long, functionally well life. I don’t get to grind now and hope to enjoy it later.
I am still working toward a better-paying job. I need that to take care of myself, Bailey, Beefy, and all our health. But once the bills are covered, I don’t want to fall into the same trap of shoveling money into a future that’s not promised. I want to actually live. Right now.
So I’m unshackling myself from that basement wall. I’m silencing the drill sergeant version of me. I won’t buy into the version of success that was sold to me.
But what I will buy? That pop-up camper.
