I grew up pretending we had money—here are 8 exhausting things my family did to keep up appearances

There's a specific tiredness that comes from performing financial stability. Growing up, my family knew this fatigue intimately—we were committed to a middle-class story we couldn't quite afford. Not poor, not comfortable, but stuck in that anxious space between, where appearance mattered more than it should have.

The irony of keeping up appearances is how expensive it becomes. The energy and money spent looking stable could have built actual stability. But when you're in the thick of it, the performance feels essential—like the gap between who you are and who you need to be is only bridgeable through careful staging.

1. We nursed a BMW through its retirement years

Our 2001 BMW occupied the driveway like a fading movie star—still recognizable, increasingly demanding. Dad learned German automotive repair from YouTube, spending weekends underneath it with borrowed tools. We knew which gas stations had the cheapest premium, exactly how long you could ignore each warning light.

That car was our membership card to the neighborhood. A Honda would have been smarter, cheaper, more reliable. But reliability wasn't the point. Belonging was. So we kept our problematic BMW running, one YouTube tutorial at a time.

2. We took vacations without going anywhere

Our vacations existed mainly in conversation. Long weekends at my aunt's became "a few days at the lake." Staycations were "exploring locally." We mastered the art of vague travel talk—enough detail to participate in office conversations, not enough to invite follow-up questions.

This wasn't exactly lying, just selective storytelling. We did rest, we did make memories. They just weren't particularly photogenic. The exhausting part was constantly translating our modest reality into socially acceptable narratives.

3. Designer shopping bags became household props

After any legitimate purchase from a high-end store—usually clearance—we'd save the bag. These bags lived in a hall closet, carefully preserved, rotating through daily use. A Nordstrom bag carrying library books. A Williams-Sonoma bag for gym clothes.

Looking back, it seems absurd. But those bags were social signals, suggesting we belonged in spaces we couldn't quite afford. The mental energy of maintaining these small deceptions added up to real exhaustion.

4. Mom turned constraints into lifestyle choices

My mother rebranded every limitation as intention. Cooking from scratch wasn't budget-driven—she "didn't trust processed foods." Thrift shopping wasn't financial—it was "vintage hunting." She transformed necessity into philosophy with exhausting consistency.

The thing is, she wasn't wrong. Her cooking was better than store-bought. Her thrift finds were genuinely special. But maintaining the narrative that these were purely preferences rather than necessities required constant performance. Even at home, we couldn't fully relax into reality.

5. Birthday parties happened between meals

We threw parties at 2:30 PM or 10:30 AM—after breakfast, before lunch. Cake and light snacks met social obligations without the cost of actual meals. Scheduling conflicts with sports or music lessons explained the odd timing.

The parties were genuinely joyful. We compensated with creativity—elaborate homemade decorations, carefully planned games. But orchestrating celebrations that looked effortless while costing minimal required exhaustive planning. Every casual-seeming detail was strategically calculated.

6. Our house lived in permanent potential

For years, our home was "about to be" beautiful. The bathroom needed "just a few updates." The basement would be "finished soon." This eternal renovation explained everything dated or broken without admitting we couldn't afford fixes.

Friends understood—everyone knows renovation hell. What they didn't know was that our renovation was mostly theoretical. We lived in the gap between what was and what could be, never quite comfortable with either.

7. Healthcare became a calculated gamble

Doctor visits required clear emergency. Everything else waited. We became experts at the kind of watchful waiting that good insurance makes unnecessary. Pharmacy clinics for strep throat. WebMD for everything else.

This wasn't neglect but risk management. We maintained healthy habits and hoped they'd be enough. The exhaustion came from constant low-grade worry—was this worth checking? Could we afford to wait?

8. Holidays required financial choreography

Christmas started in January clearance aisles. Throughout the year, we'd accumulate gifts, hiding them like squirrels preparing for winter. Credit card offers were timed strategically. Homemade gifts were framed as thoughtful, not economical.

The magic we created was real. But the backstage logistics were draining. Every December required juggling numbers instead of enjoying the season, maintaining joy through careful financial balance.

Final thoughts

The exhaustion of keeping up appearances isn't really about deception—it's about the weight of constant calculation. Every social moment requires quick math: What's expected? What can we manage? How do we bridge that gap gracefully?

Years later, I understand my parents differently. They weren't performing for vanity. They were trying to keep doors open, to ensure we could move through middle-class spaces without friction. The appearance of stability was their gift to us—access to opportunities they couldn't quite afford but refused to let us miss.

The real story isn't about fake vacations or saved shopping bags. It's about families navigating the exhausting gap between aspiration and reality, using whatever tools they have. My parents' performance was an act of love—tiring, imperfect, but aimed at something bigger than themselves. They weren't pretending to have money. They were pretending money didn't matter. That fiction, however exhausting, gave us room to become.