Brokeamateurs — Carrie

If you had told me two years ago that I would be typing this from a cramped studio apartment, eating ramen with a plastic fork, I would have laughed in your face. Not because I was rich, but because I was a master of the illusion.

Today, I am rebuilding. Slowly. Honestly. And for the first time, I’m not an amateur at being broke. I’m a professional at being real.

When the rent went up $200, the house of cards collapsed. I had no savings. I had no backup. I had a closet full of shoes I couldn't walk in and a fridge full of condiments. carrie brokeamateurs

But here’s the truth they don’t put in the montages:

It wasn't one big crash. It was a thousand tiny cuts. The $12 cold brew every morning. The "splurge" dress for a wedding I couldn't afford to attend. The loan to a friend I never saw again. I was so busy playing the part of the "struggling artist who makes it work" that I forgot to actually look at my bank account. If you had told me two years ago

Stop trying to be Carrie. Start trying to be solvent. The city lights will still be there when you come up for air.

If you are out there, wearing the costume of "I’ve got it together" while drowning in overdraft fees, I see you. Slowly

So, I broke the amateur. I killed "Carrie."

I sold the rented bag. I canceled the subscription boxes. I learned to cook (badly, but cheaply). I started saying "no" to things that didn't serve my actual bank balance.