In my 20s, my life was a whirlwind of work and ambition. I thrived in early-stage startups, earning just enough to save, pay off loans, and create a thin layer of financial security. The paychecks weren’t glamorous, but they weren’t the point. My world revolved around learning and growth, and I was happy. All my friends were the same—driven, workaholic, content. Life felt like an endless sprint, but we believed we were heading toward something meaningful.
Then the pandemic hit.
Isolation has a strange way of amplifying questions you’ve been too busy to ask. As the world stood still, so did I. For the first time in years, I wondered: If I didn’t survive this, would I look back and feel fulfilled? Would this all have been enough?
I wasn’t sure.
The answer wasn’t in more savings or a better job title. It was in the “someday” I had always promised myself—someday I’d travel, someday I’d pick up gardening, someday I’d finally stop to breathe. Suddenly, “someday” felt like a fragile, fleeting promise. What if it never came?
The pandemic forced me to see my relationship with money in a stark new light. For years, I’d saved compulsively, equating frugality with freedom. But had I been free? Or was I just hoarding for a future I might not live to see? I began to question what money was really for. It wasn’t about piling it up like leaves before winter. It was about what those leaves could shelter.
I started small: one potted plant, one solo hike, one long-overdue book. Soon, these tiny shifts turned into something bigger. I found joy in the dirt under my fingernails, the ache in my legs after a trek, the stillness of reading alone in a quiet room. My calendar began to look less like a battle plan and more like a reflection of what truly mattered.
At the same time, I wrestled with an uncomfortable truth: my past choices weren’t “wrong.” They made sense in context. I was raised in a culture that taught me to seek safety in savings and to delay gratification for a future reward. And it worked—for a while. But that version of me hadn’t lived through a global crisis. She hadn’t yet learned how fragile “later” could be.
This realization shifted my perspective on money—and life. I didn’t want to live on either extreme: hoarding every penny in fear or burning through it like tomorrow didn’t exist. Both paths seemed riddled with regret. Instead, I sought balance: saving for security while spending on what enriched my present.
One of the most impactful lessons came from a book that talked about regret as a compass for financial and life decisions. The question wasn’t “What will make me happiest right now?” but rather, “What choice will I look back on without regret?” That framework changed everything.
I don’t regret the years I spent grinding away in my 20s. They gave me stability, resilience, and lessons I wouldn’t trade for anything. But I also don’t regret the decisions I’ve made since then—to prioritize experiences over possessions, to say yes to adventure even when it meant spending a little more, and to treat time, not money, as my most precious asset.
If the pandemic taught me anything, it’s this: life doesn’t wait. There’s no perfect balance, no universal formula for how to spend, save, or live. But there is immense value in pausing long enough to ask: Am I living the life I want today?
I still save. I still plan. But I also hike, garden, write, and wander—because “someday” isn’t promised. And if you’re wondering whether your relationship with money is working for you, maybe it’s time to stop and ask the same question.
What would you change if tomorrow didn’t come?
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