The first time I told someone I couldn’t afford something, I didn’t even use those words. I said, “I’m laying low this month.” Or “I’ve got some other stuff going on.” I danced around the truth like it was embarrassing. Because the truth was—I was trying to get out of debt. And saying “I can’t afford it” felt like a confession of failure, not a responsible decision.
The hardest part of my debt journey hasn’t been the budgeting, the sacrifices, or even the guilt over past mistakes. It’s been dealing with people who didn’t understand what I was doing—or worse, didn’t respect it.
When I first got serious about paying off my debt, I made a quiet, internal promise: I was going to stop pretending I was okay financially just to keep up appearances. That meant saying no to things I used to say yes to without thinking. Group dinners. Birthday trips. Random Target runs with a friend that always turned into $80 of “just a few things.”
The problem was, my “no” wasn’t always met with understanding. Sometimes, it came with side-eyes or guilt trips. People I loved started treating my boundaries like a buzzkill. “Come on, it’s just one night!” “You’ve gotta live a little.” “You’re not that broke, are you?”
I started to feel torn between two fears: the fear of staying stuck in debt forever, and the fear of alienating people I cared about. It’s a strange thing to explain unless you’ve lived it—how heavy it feels to hold your financial line when no one around you is doing the same.
Some people assumed I was being dramatic. Others thought I was judging them for how they spent their money. But most just didn’t get it because they’d never been in the kind of financial hole I was climbing out of.
One night, a friend invited me to a fancy rooftop dinner to celebrate her promotion. I genuinely wanted to be there, but when I looked at the menu ahead of time and saw the cheapest entrée was $38, my stomach dropped. I had $60 left in my eating-out budget for the entire month. I spent 30 minutes trying to figure out how I could make it work. Should I go and just order a drink? Should I “borrow” from next month’s budget? Should I just put it on the card and deal with it later?
I almost talked myself into going—but then I remembered how awful I’d felt the last time I did that. Like I had betrayed my own progress for the sake of appearances. So I declined. Politely. Kindly. And I told her the truth: “I’m sticking to a budget this month and trying to hit a big debt goal, so I can’t swing it. But I’d love to grab coffee soon and celebrate with you one-on-one.”
Her response was… lukewarm. She said she understood, but I could tell she was disappointed. And honestly? So was I. Not in her—but in the situation. It sucks to feel like you’re choosing between your future and your relationships.
Over time, I learned a few things that helped me navigate this tension. First: not everyone is going to get it, and that’s okay. I had to stop expecting people to understand sacrifices they weren’t being asked to make. My journey was mine. And the people who truly loved me? They started to meet me where I was. Not always perfectly, but with more care. I realized the ones who pushed back the hardest often had their own complicated money issues they weren’t ready to face.
Second: I learned to reframe “I can’t afford it” into something that didn’t feel like shame. I started saying things like, “That’s not in my budget right now,” or “I’m prioritizing something else financially this month.” It’s a subtle shift, but it made a difference. It reminded me that I wasn’t broke—I was being intentional.
And third: I started creating alternatives. Instead of saying a flat no, I’d suggest something different. “I can’t do dinner, but want to take a walk and catch up?” or “I’m skipping the weekend trip, but let’s do brunch at my place next month.” Not everyone took me up on it—but the people who did? They became the ones I kept close.
One of the biggest surprises was how some friends started opening up about their money stuff after I got honest about mine. Once I stopped pretending I was fine, I gave them permission to stop pretending too. We started sharing budgeting tips, venting about our debt, and even sending each other screenshots of savings wins. I had felt so alone in this for so long—but it turns out, I wasn’t the only one struggling. I was just one of the first to say it out loud.
Family was a different kind of challenge. There’s a whole other level of pressure when it comes to expectations from parents, siblings, or extended relatives. Especially if you’re the one people usually rely on. I had to learn how to lovingly say, “I can’t help with that right now.” And mean it. Even when it was hard. Even when it hurt.
But I’ll tell you something: the more I honored my boundaries, the easier it got. Not because people suddenly changed—but because I did. I got clearer about my priorities. I stopped over-explaining. I started choosing discomfort in the moment over resentment later.
Now, two years in, I still have moments where I feel that old tension rise up—like when everyone’s Venmoing for a group birthday gift I didn’t plan for, or someone assumes I can chip in for a last-minute weekend getaway. But I’m stronger now. I know what matters to me. And I’ve learned that “no” can be kind, firm, and honest all at once.
If you’re in the thick of this, trying to stay on track while managing other people’s reactions—I see you. It’s not easy. But you’re not being selfish. You’re being strategic. You’re doing what needs to be done so that your future self has options, stability, peace.
That’s not just a budget move. That’s a love move.