I remember sitting at my desk one night, staring at an empty spreadsheet titled “2024 Budget Goals.” I had poured a glass of wine to feel fancy, lit a candle because I read somewhere that ambiance helps with money anxiety, and tried to channel my inner Financially Together Woman. But after twenty minutes of typing and deleting, I gave up and closed the laptop.
It wasn’t the numbers that defeated me. It was the shame.
At 41, I thought I’d be further along. That’s the quiet sentence I carry around like a stone in my pocket. It doesn’t shout, it just…weighs. I’ve worked hard my entire adult life—climbed ladders, side-hustled, stayed late, saved when I could. And still, some days it feels like I’m one broken appliance away from crying in the bodega.
I don’t come from money. I’m not married. I don’t have a trust fund or a rich uncle or a partner to split the rent. Every dollar in my account is there because I put it there. And every financial mistake—I own those, too.
There were years I didn’t contribute to my 401(k) because rent had gone up and my student loan payment didn’t care that my paycheck hadn’t. There were months I used credit cards for groceries, telling myself it was temporary. There were friends’ weddings I couldn’t afford to attend but went anyway, charging flights and dresses I wore once. And there were more than a few late-night Amazon scrolls that ended in a delivery box and a silent promise to “get it together next month.”
What they don’t tell you is that financial regret doesn’t always feel dramatic. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet background hum in your life, like a radiator that never stops clanking. You get used to it. Until one day, you realize how tired you are of pretending you’re fine.
I hit that wall last fall.
My lease was up. My landlord was raising the rent by $350 a month. I cried—not because I couldn’t technically afford it, but because I could only afford it if nothing went wrong. And in this economy? Something always goes wrong.
So I moved. Not to a cuter apartment or a new city. I moved in with a friend who had a spare room in her Queens apartment. We have different schedules, and I miss having my own space, but the relief I felt not stretching every dollar to its breaking point? That was worth it.
This isn’t the glamorous, “I quit my job and moved to Bali” kind of story. I didn’t sell everything and become a digital nomad. I didn’t suddenly pay off all my debt in a year. I’m still working. Still budgeting. Still trying. Still sometimes scared. But also—finally—telling the truth.
We don’t talk enough about what financial survival looks like when you’re in your 40s and still trying to stabilize. We glorify the comeback story after the breakthrough. But what about the middle? The part where you’re not drowning, but you’re not exactly swimming with ease either?
That’s where I am.
This site—Money40s—isn’t about pretending to have it all figured out. It’s about being honest in a world that makes women feel ashamed when we haven’t hit every milestone on time. I started writing here because I needed to believe there were other women like me—ambitious, responsible, and still working through the messiness of money.
So if you’re in the middle, too—welcome. You’re not behind. You’re not a failure. And you’re definitely not alone.
Let’s figure it out together.