Dear Mom,

When I was growing up, I often watched you while you sat on the couch. Legs stretched out long in your corner. Watching TV with a checkbook in your hands. 

“What are you doing?” I’d ask. 

“Balancing the checkbook.” You’d say.

For all of my childhood, I never knew what that meant. 

Nowadays I don’t think anyone balances their checkbook anymore. If we’re still supposed to, then I’m way behind. 

You often looked like you were handling finances. Dealing with money. But I never understood it. We went to the bank a lot. We loaded up on those suckers with the looped handles. I hated the green ones. What were you doing at the bank so often? Why was money such a big part of our world yet such a quiet topic? 

I got the idea that you enjoyed buying nice things. Enjoyed owning nice things. Isn’t that why you’d take me to the boutique clothing shops in Downtown Highland Park? To get all those Michael Stars? I don’t think it was my idea. I don’t think I initiated those shopping trips. I don’t know. Maybe somewhere deep inside I liked it too. Maybe I also felt the pressure of a certain image. Still, when I really think about it, I think that was more for you than me.

I prefer to live minimally. Not with nothing. I do enjoy certain creature comforts. But overall, I don’t need much to be happy. I never have. Not really. It’s why I often drive cars until they crumble. Why I didn’t have a car for eight years. Why I still wear that black skirt I bought back in college.

But it’s not all about looking at nice things as nonessential. It’s not that I avoid buying new items because I only want to wear my burgundy sweatshirt, which was a sample from Dad meant for Jeremy, that is about to disintegrate if I wash it again. It’s not like I avoid getting a haircut more than once a year because I enjoy my split ends. I don’t skip going out for dinner or to the movie theater because I hate restaurants and movies. All of this is avoided because, well, I don’t have money.

I wish I did. I wish I hadn’t taken out all those student loans for a Master of Fine Arts degree. I wish I hadn’t bought the car. I know it helps to get around Los Angeles with two kids, but I do wish I had that money instead. I wish I didn’t commit to a big trip with my family for next year. I know the kids will make the most magical of memories, but is it worth the stress? The regret? The extreme buyer’s remorse?

It’s funny, I don’t remember you having buyer’s remorse. I remember you spending. But not regretting. Which doesn’t sound right. In fact, it goes directly against your core identity. You worried. About everything. I doubt you were spending so frivolously and somehow feeling fine about it. If you somehow spent without regret, I could have learned that skill. 

Maybe you hid it from us. Could it be? Could you have hidden one thing? You were so open and honest about everything else. I knew details about you that I shouldn’t have known, but this? Your mismanagement of money and any worry you had about it? That could have been helpful information.

In high school, I took an AP economics class where we learned about credit cards. I can still see the question on a multiple-choice test that asked, ‘What is a credit card?’ The answer was, ‘Debt’. I remember having a reaction of, ‘I will never get one’. It wasn’t until after you died that I got my first credit card. I was already married. I had been so spooked to rack up debt that I avoided it entirely. It took me years to build up my credit, which I did so perfectly it was way too easy to buy that car I now regret.

When it comes to my own money, I could use a lot more. I don’t rack up credit card bills like you did but if I add one more payment plans I’ll need a spreadsheet to keep track. Strangely though, I don’t worry that much about having enough money. I don’t worry about paying our rent. I know we will always have enough for the essentials. We spend more than we should but we’re also pretty conservative. We love cutting back on spending. That I can say with full confidence. Cancelling subscriptions. Declining outings. Saying no to anything that costs money. Oh, boy do I get pure joy out of not spending. Saving money? That is the greatest feeling. Discounts and deals? Love it. So much.

What I struggle with, and it feels like it’s getting worse lately, is my intense regret every time I do spend money. Not when I pay bills or pay toward debts and payment plans. It’s when I purchase items. Pretty much any items other than the normal necessities. I don’t feel it when I buy groceries or gas or new shoes for the kids. It happens when I buy things that don’t feel essential. 

My name is Rachel and I struggle with buyer’s remorse. And it’s exhausting. 

Last week, I bought a heavily discounted plane ticket. I decided that instead of throwing Scotland a birthday party this year, which would probably cost much more than the ticket, I will take her on a trip just the two of us to a city she’s never been to. I thought of it because of all those birthdays of mine when you’d take me to Downtown Chicago for a weekend at a fancy hotel. Those were such special memories. Now that I think about it, did those cost a fortune? I feel like Dad usually got deals at the hotels through work, so I don’t think it was too bad. But it never mattered to me how fancy it was, I only wanted to be with you. And I want my daughter to have that experience with her mom. Memories of weekend getaways just us gals to celebrate together. So why did I stay up most of the night worrying and regretting purchasing that ticket? Why did it eat me up from the inside? Why? Seriously? Tell me, please. I must know.

What is this terrible disorder I have? This inability to be happy with a purchase. And it’s not just the big ones. I’ve been buying a lot of YA and Middle Grade books recently which cost around nine dollars, but I had to buy an adult book as research for the book I’m currently writing, and it cost nineteen dollars. For days, while physically reading the book, I was lost in my head in a debilitating swirl of regret and questioning. Why didn’t I order it from the library? Or for my Kindle? Or on audio? Why couldn’t I be content with the fact that I already saw the show that was based on the book, and I know the story and I probably don’t actually need to read it? 

But hear me out, what if I could be happy with the purchase? What if I could think of reasons to be positive instead?

The book, in my opinion is a modern classic and important to own. My kids might read it when they’re old enough. Maybe I’ll trade it with a family member when I’m done so they can read it next. It won’t simply sit on my bookshelf collecting dust. Also, I know I will finish reading it and I will learn from it. That’s not something I can say about every book I’ve ever bought.

The trip? There are so many positive aspects of that purchase. I’m taking Scotland to San Francisco. A city I fell in love with when I was a kid and haven’t been back to since the last time we went as a family. I can’t wait to show her all my favorite spots. The best part? We will get to spend time with my oldest friend, Megan, who I have barely spent time with since high school. We have a strong friendship that seems to survive even through years of not speaking. But that’s not what I want. It’s not ideal. I want to see her more. To talk to her more. She is a friend I want to keep closer. I want my kids to know her like an aunt and not just that friend mom introduced them to that one time in Switzerland. Isn’t that alone reason enough to spend money? Also, like I said, it was so discounted! Oh, but I’ll have to take Scotland out of school for one day. And I won’t take clients that day. And I’ll have to buy her nice things in San Fran and…and… and… and I can think of a gazillion reasons why it was irresponsible to plan this trip. A bad idea to spend this money. But wouldn’t it be so much less exhausting to simply be happy with this amazing memory we will make together?

Did you ever feel this way? If so, I wish you had talked to me about it. Did you suffer like this when you took me on that cruise? Did you regret buying that piano? That guitar? Did you wish you hadn’t bought me those dresses for homecoming? All those hotels. Shopping sprees. Haircuts. Did you stay up all night wishing you hadn’t spent the money? Wishing you had simply taken me on a walk? Laid down next to me in bed to read a book?

What I really wonder is if this would be any different if I had more money. If I had much more money. If I wasn’t on a payment plan with the IRS. If I wasn’t paying off student loans. If I had money, would I still get so upset when booking a babysitter to take Jeremy out to a concert for his birthday. A concert which I bought tickets to months earlier. Which were very cheap. Would I still be upset that I am going to spend $120 on a babysitter, which I haven’t done in over six months? Does having money even matter in this scenario? Or will I always regret spending? 

Maybe I need more money, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t make a difference. That if I had more, I’d spend more. I’d say yes to more classes and lessons and sports for the kids. I’d say yes to more trips and more museum days and more memberships. I’d say yes to more concerts and more restaurants and more date nights. The very thought of these scenarios makes my heart pound. Makes me nervous and uncomfortable.

Maybe it’s all reframing. Maybe I simply need to look at money and spending from a different view. Couldn’t I choose to not worry and look forward to these options instead?

What if I admitted to myself that I deserve a new bra that wasn’t bought while I was still pregnant? One that could actually support me. What if I allowed myself to experience a haircut twice a year and to see it as the wonderful experience it is instead of unnecessary grooming? What if I saw the car as a vehicle for memories? Taking us to places we can’t access without it.

What I truly need to work on is accepting buying necessities that I’ve convinced myself I don’t need. But I do need that bra. I do need that haircut. I do need that massage and those shorts and that skin cream. I do need to take care of myself. To go to the doctor. To pay the little bit of money to wax my eyebrows. I probably do need that pedicure. Maybe. And it will always be hardest to accept that spending money on myself is necessary. It will always be hard to see that I’m worth the cost. 

My buyer’s remorse must be related to me. It’s when I spend money on myself that I’m consumed with regret. I don’t care when it’s clothes or haircuts or music lessons for my kids. I probably wouldn’t even care if it was a trip for only them. Didn’t feel one ounce of regret when I paid for their summer camp. Nope. That was fine. It’s always when I am included in the cost. When I have a ticket. When I get something to eat. When I get pampered. When the book is for me, the swimsuit, the coffee, the ice cream, the new bicycle helmet. When it’s for me I can’t handle it. Because at the end of the day, apparently, I don’t believe I’m worth it.

Perhaps I need to accept that I am worth the cost. That I am essential. 

Could that solve all my problems with money? Probably not, but it’s certainly a step in the right direction.

I love you, Mom.

Love,

Rachel

P.S. Maybe I should have kept that giant bin from the container store filled with barely worn Michael Stars. Could have made some money off of them.