An anonymous writer reflects on growing up around money that was never spoken about—and the shame that followed. This episode sits with secrecy, criticism, and the quiet anger that can form when we’re left to navigate money without guidance.

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—

Oof. We have a complicated relationship, huh?

I grew up in a house of privilege, but you were never talked about. My family went through hard times but never stopped living like we had you. I heard whispers about debt and struggle, but so much was hidden. To this day, I still don’t know how much my family makes or where we truly stood financially.

I got into credit card debt for the first time in college. Instead of teaching me how to be better with money, my parents asked my grandmother to advise me. She wrote a $5,000 check, paid off the card, and told me to close the account—no coaching, no conversation. I was grateful, but I was also confused. I wanted to learn.

I’ve always been a spender. If I have money, I feel like I should use it before someone else needs it. I don’t know where that belief came from, but it means I’ve rarely kept much in savings.

When I was married, I found myself in a strange dynamic. I was ambitious, and my partner wasn’t. He worked minimum-wage jobs and didn’t return to school, which made me the primary breadwinner. I worked three jobs and went to rehearsals at night. He criticized how I handled our finances but never helped me learn to do better. Instead, he reinforced my shame.

I got into grad school on a full ride, but I still took out loans to cover our rent and groceries so we could live. After we divorced, I was left with $72,000 in debt—debt he couldn’t help with, but had been happy to benefit from.

I took what money I had left and moved to New York City. I landed a great job and eventually found a partner who’s been gently coaching me around finances. I’m growing more confident, but it’s still a struggle.

I’m looking forward to building a better relationship with you— even though part of me hates you right now.

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

For me what stands out immediately in this letter is the silence.

You grew up around money—but not with it.There were whispers.There were appearances.There were hard times hidden behind maintained lifestyles.

But there wasn’t conversation.

And when there’s no conversation, children fill in the blanks.

You learned that money is something we don’t name.Something we don’t ask about.Something that somehow exists—and yet can’t be spoken aloud.

That kind of silence creates confusion.And it also creates shame.

When you got into credit card debt in college, what you actually wanted wasn’t rescue.You wanted to learn.

Instead, the problem disappeared—but the questions didn’t.

The card was paid off.The account was closed.But you didn’t come away with any understanding.

That matters.

Because when money mistakes (and we all make them) are erased without conversation, what lingers is the sense that you did something wrong… and you’re still not sure what it was.

And then, in your marriage… it’s interesting because on the surface what you describe seems completely different - but I think there’s an important similarity.

Here you worked and carried responsibility and stretched yourself thin.

And in this case what did you get?

Criticism.

Just like with your debt, there was no partnership, no collaboration.

So this also created a reinforcement of shame.

There’s something deeply disorienting about being the one who holds things together—and still being told you’re mishandling them.

It makes sense that you have anger.

In the final line of your letter you name that anger as hate.

But underneath that I hear something else:

I hear a longing to have been taught… to have been supported… to have not carried so much alone.

Money just became the surface where all of that played out.

The silence.The criticism.The unequal burden.The debt left in your name.

Sometimes when we say we “hate” money, we are really grieving the ways we were left alone with it.

The ways we weren’t guided.The ways we weren’t protected.The ways responsibility came before understanding.

Hate can be a shield for that grief.

And it can also be the first honest emotion in a relationship that’s finally being brought into the light.

But you also share something very different in the final part of your letter. You share that

You moved.You started over.You found work.You found a partner who speaks about money gently.

Gently.

That word shifts everything.

Because what you may be discovering now isn’t just better budgeting or financial strategy.

You’re discovering what it feels like when money is discussed without secrecy or criticism or punishment.

That’s not a small shift.

It sounds like you are someone who is finally being given space to learn without shame.

And that changes everything.

Your anger doesn’t need to magically disappear. It can exist along with your willingness to stay in the conversation.

And that willingness is what creates the possibility (I would even say the likelihood) of developing your own relationship with money into something different than you were ever shown.

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.

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