My Secret Debt

For years I've joked with my clients about my "secret debt." It became one of those running jokes that got a laugh every time. I even had another joke I called my "money laundering. "If I was paying for something expensive—Botox, hair supplies, or some other purchase—I might split the payment between cash, my debit card, and what I lovingly referred to as my secret credit card. "See?" I'd laugh. "I'm laundering money."

Everyone laughed.

I laughed too. Humor has a funny way of softening the things we'd rather not look at.

The truth is, my secret debt wasn't really funny. It was real. My husband doesn't know exactly what I owe. Not because he's controlling. Not because he's ever made me feel small.

In fact, he's incredibly supportive.

The shame is mine. I've spent a lot of time wondering why. It's easy to say I have a spending problem. But lately I've started wondering if spending isn't the problem at all. Maybe it's the symptom. I've noticed a pattern.

Whenever life feels uncertain, I spend.

If my husband is weighing a major career decision or talking about moving, he processes it methodically. He gathers information. He takes his time.

Meanwhile, my brain is already preparing for every possible outcome. Nothing has happened. Nothing may happen. But my nervous system doesn't seem to know the difference. Sometimes I wonder if buying something gives me one small thing that feels certain.

One decision that's mine.

One little reminder that life is still moving forward.

Then there's loneliness. My husband starts work around six in the morning and often doesn't finish until nine at night. He's the CEO of a company, and I know his job demands more than most.

I don't resent him for that.

I'm proud of him.

But two things can be true at once.

I can completely support the life we've built while also admitting that sometimes I feel lonely inside it.

Then there's Christmas.

This one runs much deeper than presents.

When I was little, my mom wrapped my gifts differently than my sister's. Mine had green yarn tied around white tissue paper. Hers had red. Our stockings were magical. They held practical things, silly things, and tiny surprises that somehow became some of my favorite childhood memories.

When I had children of my own, I wanted them to feel that same magic.

Justin's gifts were wrapped one way.

Richie's another.

I hid money in the Christmas tree. I filled stockings with little treasures.Years later, my boys—now adults—told me those little details mattered.

They remembered.

My husband has never been a big Christmas gift person. That's simply not how he expresses love. Somewhere along the way, I quietly decided that if I wanted to preserve those traditions, I'd pay for them myself. So Christmas often found its way onto my secret card.

Then there are my dogs.

If you know me, you know dogs aren't just pets. They're woven into who I am.

My husband has graciously shared his life with more dogs than he would have chosen because he knows what they mean to me. Recently he told me that when our youngest dog eventually passes, she may be our last.

Maybe we'll compromise.

Maybe we won't.

But even that conversation reminded me how closely our spending can become tied to the things that make us feel most like ourselves.

Last year, a friend stayed with me who practices energy work.

Do I know exactly what happened?

No.

Maybe it was the energy work.

Maybe it was the deep relaxation.

Maybe it was simply having someone encourage me to see myself differently.

I honestly don't know. And strangely, I'm okay not knowing.

What I do know is that I left feeling lighter. She talked to me about safety. About how sometimes we spend money trying to create a feeling our nervous system is craving.

That idea stayed with me.

Not long afterward, I paid off several thousand dollars of debt I'd been carrying for years.

Eventually some old habits found their way back. Brains tend to follow familiar paths. I'm still carving new ones. I'm still digging my way out. But I've stopped asking myself, "Why do I keep spending?" Now I'm asking something entirely different.

What am I trying to feel?

Safety?

Comfort?

Control?

Connection?

A little bit of Christmas magic?

A reminder that I still exist outside of everyone else's needs?

The more I think about it, the less I believe this is really a money story.

It's a shame story.

My shame just happens to wear the clothes of debt. Yours may look completely different.

Maybe yours hides in food.

Or alcohol.

Or a closet full of things you never wear.

Maybe it's a house you won't let people visit because you're embarrassed by the mess.

Maybe it's avoiding the doctor because you're afraid of what you'll hear.

Maybe it's pretending you're okay when you're exhausted.

Maybe it's working so much that you never have to sit quietly with yourself.

Shame is universal.

Its disguise is personal.

What surprises me most is that my husband has rarely given me a reason to believe I couldn't tell him. So why didn't I?

I don't know.

Maybe shame doesn't always come from the people around us. Sometimes it comes from the stories we quietly tell ourselves. I also don't know how people heal.

Maybe it's therapy.

Maybe it's a trusted friend.

Maybe it's yoga.

Maybe it's prayer.

Maybe it's writing.

Maybe it's a long walk.

Maybe it's simply hearing someone ask a question that helps you see yourself differently.

I don't think there's one right path.

I only know this.

The moment I stopped asking, "What's wrong with me?" and started asking, "What am I trying to protect?" something shifted. I'm still paying off my secret debt. But I don't think the heaviest thing I've been carrying was ever the balance on the credit card.

It was the belief that I had to carry it alone.