An anonymous writer realizes that fear—not irresponsibility—has shaped their relationship with money. This episode sits with control, scarcity, and what it means to loosen our grip without abandoning ourselves.

Transcript

Hi. I’m Miata.This is Dear Money.

Here, we tell the truth about our relationship with money—the parts we usually keep private.

Each episode, I read and respond to a real letter to money that has been shared anonymously.The goal (for all of us) is never to judge. It also isn’t to fix or to advise.Just to listen, reflect, and try to open some things that’ve been tight or hidden.

Let’s begin.

Letters may be lightly edited for privacy and clarity.

Dear Money,

Isn’t it funny how, in all the years we’ve been together, I never once addressed you?

If I had to guess why, I’d say I was afraid—and that might be the easiest guess I’ve ever made. I’ve always thought of you like one of those toxic men who can’t commit. I spent so much time worrying about when you’d come, whether you’d stay, that I never really enjoyed being with you.

They say having you should set me free—open possibilities. That’s what everyone wants: money always around. But the moment I see you, I lock you in a closet. I’m too afraid you’ll leave.

What’s the point of making nice memories if you’re gone the next day? I ask myself. Are a few hours of sunshine worth your absence in the morning?

As I write this, I hear a small voice in my head shouting, Yes. It’s worth it. Life can end tomorrow. What’s the point of keeping possibility locked away?But still, I can’t bring myself to let you out. Is it trauma? I don’t know.

As long as I can remember, you were something I knew about but couldn’t mention. My parents shared you carefully, making plans about who would get to use you and when. There was never enough. Someone was always giving something up. And when they offered me your company, I couldn’t accept it—I worried they’d be left alone. So I pretended I didn’t care about you. I walked beside you, but never acknowledged you. I thought that way, you’d stay.

Then I went to an elite school where people weren’t so careful. They had you with them all the time—building beautiful rooms, wearing beautiful clothes, going beautiful places. And I watched, holding your hand tightly, telling myself, At least I know you’re staying.

Writing this now, I wonder: if I were you, would I enjoy being with me? Probably not. I was an overprotective parent. I kept you in a closet. I held you too tightly. I never allowed you to become anything else.

It reminds me of a play I once saw—a girl rescues a bird and keeps it in a cage to heal it. She falls in love with the bird, and when it’s ready to fly, she can’t let it go. But if she truly loves it, she should. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s true.

I see now that you are my bird. I was so afraid to lose you that I may have suffocated you—keeping you locked away, calling it “safe.” The truth is, I’m afraid. I live in a foreign country without my family. I don’t have a 9–5. I don’t know how I’ll take care of myself next month. If you leave, what happens to me? Who am I then—other than alone?

I know I need better plans. I need guidance so I can look beyond fear and finally free you—so I can free myself, too. I don’t want to keep living the way I always have. I’ve grown up. I’ve changed. Maybe you have too.

Would you be open to really getting to know each other? If I unlock the cage, will you promise not to run away? Will you teach me how to play? Will you be safe?

Because I don’t think I’ll ever be okay without knowing if you are.

Let’s pause and just sit with that for a moment. Just breathe and let yourself notice anything this letter brings up for you.

As I read this beautiful letter, what stays with me most is how much tenderness there is in the fear.

Your words really tell the story that’s a direct opposite to one of carelessness with money.You’re telling a story about devotion. Not just devotion to money… but devotion to your parents… you share the ways you were with money to take care of your parents… to make sure they were okay.

From the very beginning, money wasn’t something you were allowed to relax with. It was something to be managed, shared carefully, protected. Someone was always giving something up. Someone was always at risk of being left without enough.

So, as we do, you took away an early lesson from all of this:if you didn’t ask too much,if you didn’t want too openly,if you didn’t acknowledge money at all—maybe it would stay.

Your lack of acknowledgement - it’s easy to just call it avoidance. But I see it as your strategy for loving something that feels fragile.

When you describe locking money away—holding it tightly, keeping it close—it sounds like fear shaped into responsibility. Like someone trying to prevent loss by controlling proximity.

And then there’s this moment in the letter that feels especially alive to me. It’s when you ask if allowing yourself to enjoy money is worth the risk…

And you share that small voice that is shouting at you:Yes. It’s worth it. Life can end tomorrow.

That voice isn’t reckless.It isn’t naïve.

It’s the part of you that remembers that safety without living isn’t really safety at all.

And sure—hearing that voice isn’t overriding the fear.You’re not pretending it’s gone.

To the contrary. You name it.

You don’t look away from what it’s like to live far from family.To not have a fixed employment structure.To not know what next month will bring.

And you have the courage to name the real question.

“Who am I if money leaves?”

I feel like writing this letter was such an exercise in discovery for you. Your willingness to explore says a lot about where you are now.

When you ask whether money would enjoy being with you, something important happens. You stop seeing yourself as the problem to fix—and start seeing the relationship itself. The relationship you have with money.

The image of the bird illustrates the challenges of this relationship beautifully.

Sometimes what we call safety is actually a cage built out of love.

And sometimes what we call control is just fear trying to prevent heartbreak.

I hear someone who has grown enough to question the rules they learned early—and whether those rules still fit the life they’re living now.

You ask if money would be willing to really get to know you.If it would promise not to run away.If it would teach you how to play.

Those are human, really grown up questions.

You’ve already named so much in your letter. And I want to gently add this:

Money has already been with you through uncertainty.Through change.Through moving countries.Through not knowing.

It didn’t disappear the moment things felt unstable.And you didn’t disappear either.

So maybe the next step here isn’t unlocking the cage all at once.And it isn’t finding certainty or “freedom” from fear before you make a move.

Maybe it’s simply noticing that fear and care have been living side by side this whole time.

The fear is still here.But so is your capacity to stay in relationship—with money, and with yourself.

Thank you to the writer for trusting me with this letter.And thank you for listening.

Dear Money is a space for honesty, not answers.You don’t need to do anything with what came up today.

If you find yourself holding a truth you haven’t named yet, you’re welcome to write your own letter to money. I’ll be here.

New episodes are published every Thursday.

Until next time.

This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit miataedoga.substack.com