The Price of Not Being a Burden

My parents didn’t make a lot of money. In fact, it’s a miracle they raised five kids on what was essentially minimum wage. They made just enough to get by—but never enough to breathe.

Growing up, money wasn’t just tight—it was taboo. We didn’t talk about it. But we all felt it.

I felt it when I got sick and didn’t say anything because I was scared of the doctor’s bill. I felt it when I skipped applying to out-of-state colleges—not because I didn’t want to leave, but because I couldn’t afford the application fees. I felt it when the only sport I could join was tennis, and only because someone gave me a used racket.

I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t uninterested. I was just broke. And when you grow up broke, you learn not to want too much. Because wanting hurts.

Between strict parents and a scarcity mindset, I always felt like I was living in a box—hemmed in by fear, guilt, and limitation. There were no risks to take, because failure wasn’t an option. We couldn’t afford failure. So I played it safe. I followed orders. I made choices not from freedom, but from survival.

Some kids grew up with an allowance. I grew up with awareness.

Hyper-aware of what everything cost. What it would take away if I asked for it. I learned to scan the room for what was too much.

And just when we did have something nice—like new tools to fix the car, or a small savings fund for my oldest sister’s college—the garage would get broken into. The piggy bank we were saving was stolen. Even progress felt dangerous. Like any step forward would be punished.

That’s what poverty and fear do together: they train you not to dream too loudly. I didn’t live for possibility. I lived for permission.

And still, in the midst of it all, I learned grit. I learned how to wait. How to make do. How to dream on a delay. It felt like life was a giant pay-to-play club and I didn’t have the wristband. But I waited at the gate anyway.

Years later, when I hit my lowest point—the kind where living felt heavier than not—I didn’t fantasize about a different life. I fantasized about how to make my death affordable.

I meticulously planned how to leave without burdening anyone. I paid off all my debt. I didn’t buy anything too extravagant. Everything I owned fit into one car. So when the time happened, it could just go to trash.

It’s strange to say this out loud, but some people make money to live. I was making money to die. Not to build a future, but to buy my way out of this world quietly.

And yet—at rock bottom, something cracked open.

For the first time in my life, I had nothing left to lose. No debt. No expectations. No more excuses. That’s when I finally took a risk. I quit my job. I became a yoga teacher.

Not because I was brave. But because I had finally let go of everything that tethered me to the life I was taught to endure. And when I let go—something new opened up. Possibility. Clarity. Breath.

Now, when I think about money, I still feel a strange cocktail of guilt and grief. But I also feel relief. I survived it. I survived the mindset that told me I was only as valuable as the bills I didn’t rack up.

And today?

I let myself dream—not from a place of fear.

But from choice.

Because you don’t owe your entire life just to avoid being a burden.

You’re worth more.