I meet a lot of people in my line of work. Mostly men, mostly liberal, mostly well-off financially, mostly educated, mostly heterosexual…
And every one of them successful.
What I find baffling, and yet also deeply understand, is how many of these successful people don’t see themselves that way.
I grew up with entrepreneurial parents. They owned a small business, had a few employees, and worked pretty much every day. They were able to take major holidays off, and we went on some road trips, but I was 27 the first time I went abroad. We never suffered a lack of the basics, and we had pets, bicycles, and gas in the car whenever we needed it.
While I don’t ever remember getting a formal sitting down financial education, being frugal was built into my upbringing. My brother wanted a guitar. A fancy, expensive one. But he didn’t know how to play. So my parents bought him a small one and said that if he practiced, he could get a better one. A year later, he got an Xbox for Christmas. We went to the library once a week to borrow books and movies, despite the fact that we had oodles of space to own them if we wanted. We made two annual trips to Costco to buy items in bulk, saving money in the long run. Little things like that. We weren’t poor by any stretch, but I don’t think we ever bought a car new off the lot.
So when I started out on my own, some of these attitudes about money really stuck, even when I had more than I needed. Don’t spend more than you have. Live below your means. Work as if your employer’s business was your business. Be careful with credit. Avoid debt whenever possible. Use items until they wear out, don’t replace them just because you can.
And yet there was something more. Something unspoken about money and success that I wasn’t able to name for many years. Something that wasn’t rooted in common sense spending habits or logic.
Fear.
At first, when I started making my own money, I lived cheap and paid off debt. I was working both a square job and at the DreamGirls down by the sports stadiums, with a monthly budget based solely off my regular paycheck. I still remember the first time I had “real” money. I had paid off my student loans, paid all the bills for the month, and I had 1,000 left over. It was real money, too. A stack of hundreds and twenties on my night stand, cash in hand from generous gentlemen at the club. I could touch it and admire it. I felt giddy, foolish even. I felt an easing of tension, relief from fear I didn’t know I had.
Because money isn’t just money. Money represents safety. My conservative upbringing meant I had no idea what social safety nets were available, and even if I had known, I’d have been ashamed to apply. Without money, I would have to rely on the kindness of others. My parents, mostly, but my roommate. I had already availed myself of my Aunt’s aid, and my Uncle’s. If I had to, I could have asked again, and to this day I know I’ll have a refuge of last resort in many family homes. But I don’t like relying on other people, and I fear the shame and disapproval of my family should I fail and have to run for cover.
And there it is again. Fear.
For me, having money assuages that fear. I do like watching the numbers go up when I play a game. The rising total of some silly in-game currency always makes me happy. Not like Scrooge McDuck, with the swimming pool full of gold; it doesn’t make me happy in and of itself. What makes me happy is that it represents a truth: I am winning.
And so life imitates art: as the numbers go up in my real life bank account I don’t see money. I see safety. I see rent paid for years, if necessary. I see winter-proofing the lake house. I see a future in which I make it to old age in relative comfort.
My bank recently approved me for what feels like an absurd amount of credit. I could order a medium sized yurt kit online and pay for it entirely with one swipe. I’ll never do it (avoid debt when possible, and credit card debt especially) but it is comforting as fuck to know I *could* if I had to. Once again I get that feeling of giddiness, of having arrived, the fear of “failure” lifting.
I fear a future in which I am old, alone, and too broke to pay for the kind of medical care that allows me to stay independent. I fear not having a safe and comfortable place to live. I fear catastrophic medical expenses that make an old, lonely, broke existence more likely. I fear that my prime income generating years are behind me and I have an old, lonely, broke existence in my future.
That fear has driven a lot of my decisions over the years. After TRB went down in 2016, that fear had me at my computer signing up for every advertising location I could find. That fear drives me to do things I hate, like the never ending cleaning so my bathroom sparkles for you, and making the bed with fresh sheets every. Single. Time. That fear factors into every major life decision I make.
And it’s a fear that, except under extremely rare circumstances, can’t be assuaged by just giving me more money. Isn’t that wild? Because a one-time gift doesn’t indicate a trend, and it would have to be a catastrophic amount in order for it to chip away at that fearful vision of an old, lonely, broke future. We’re talking a quarter of a million catastrophic, because that’s enough to fix up the lake house. And I *still* wouldn’t stop working. Because enough to fix the lake house isn’t enough to live off for the rest of my life, and a winter-tight home is all well and good until you don’t have enough to pay the property taxes.
Enough. What is enough to assuage that fear? I hear a lot of numbers thrown around. A million bucks and you can retire, I’m told. Assuming you’ve got Social Security to count on, or a pension, or hot damn, both! I can count on neither. What will the number be in twenty years when I’m finally nearing retirement age? What is enough to assuage my fear?
I write all this with the benefit of self-reflection. I’ve known about this fear for a few years now and I do a pretty good job of managing it. The numbers go up every month, I try to trust that I’m doing now what needs doing to secure my future, and I am usually able to harness my fear, rather than panic at it.
And so I wonder, when I meet people who seem to me to have secure futures, why they still fear? What fear is keeping you in a job you hate? What fear prevents you from changing lanes, from stepping back, from prioritizing yourself? By virtue of my rates, most of the people I meet aren’t in danger of losing their homes. They have nice clothes, nice toys, nice cars. And yet I am surprised at how many people who to an outside observer are successful, haven’t made peace with their fear. Don’t consider themselves successful. Don’t have enough.
This is not a judgement. Heaven knows I’ve no room to tell others what to feel or fear where futures are concerned. I don’t have children, so the only future I have to fear for is my own. My parents are well-enough set that it will be some time before their future becomes my problem. I am as guilty as the next person of making decisions out of fear of the unknown.
But I’m aware of it now. As recently as this month, that fear has shown itself. But I am ready for it now. I let it motivate me instead of cow me. I manage my anxiety rather than flailing. And I remind myself that, though I don’t have enough yet to be done, I do have enough for now.