The invisible burden of having enough but never quite feeling like you deserve it.
I bought expensive olive oil last month. Not the fancy imported stuff in the boutique bottle, just the mid-tier brand that costs twelve dollars instead of six.
I stood in the grocery aisle for an embarrassingly long time, debating whether I "needed" it. This is middle-class guilt in real time.
There's a specific discomfort that comes with being comfortable but not wealthy. You have enough, sometimes more than enough, yet carry this low-grade anxiety about enjoying it. Rudá Iandê touches on this in his new book Laughing in the Face of Chaos. How we internalize stories about worthiness that have nothing to do with reality. The middle class has perfected the art of second-guessing comfort.
1. Taking a sick day when you're actually sick
You wake up with a fever and your first thought isn't "I should rest." It's "Is this sick enough?" You calculate whether your symptoms justify missing work.
The wealthy don't have this conversation with themselves. Neither do people living paycheck to paycheck—they can't afford to miss work regardless. But middle-class workers carry this strange obligation to prove they're truly unwell before taking care of themselves. We've absorbed the belief that comfort must be earned through visible suffering.
2. Ordering appetizers at restaurants
There's a particular hesitation when the server asks if you'd like to start with something. You glance at your partner. They glance back. Nobody wants to be the one suggesting an extra twenty-five dollars on food you don't technically need.
The appetizers are probably the best thing on the menu. But there's this ingrained calculator running in your head, tallying the bill before you've looked at entrees. You can afford it. That's not the question. The question is whether you're allowed to want it.
3. Buying something full price instead of waiting for a sale
I needed new running shoes last winter. My old ones had holes. I found a pair I liked, in stock, in my size. Still checked three other websites to see if I could find them cheaper.
This is middle-class theater at its finest. We perform this elaborate dance of "being smart with money" even when the difference is fifteen dollars and we've spent an hour comparison shopping. As Rudá writes, "We mistake the map for the territory, the name for the essence, and the story for the truth." The story we tell ourselves is that full price equals wasteful, even when the math doesn't support it.
4. Hiring help for things you could technically do yourself
Paying someone to clean your house. Ordering grocery delivery. Getting your lawn mowed. Each comes with a side of guilt about being lazy or indulgent.
Never mind that your time might be worth more doing other things. Never mind that creating jobs is participating in an economy. There's this persistent feeling that if you're physically capable of doing something yourself, paying someone else makes you soft. The wealthy outsource without thinking twice. The middle class apologizes for having the option.
5. Taking vacation days you've already earned
You accrue paid time off, then feel anxious about using it. Will your team manage without you? Will you return to chaos? Does taking a full week make you look less committed?
The irony is that skipping vacation doesn't make you more valuable at work—it just makes you exhausted. But middle-class identity is wrapped up in being dependable, being needed, being the person who shows up. Rest feels like admitting you're not essential, which threatens the entire performance.
6. Buying organic produce
The organic strawberries cost seven dollars. The regular ones cost three-fifty. You stand there weighing whether pesticides are really that bad while knowing you're overthinking a four-dollar decision.
This guilt is particularly absurd because we're talking about food—the most basic human need. But there's something about the word "organic" that feels indulgent, like prioritizing your preferences over practical necessity. The truly wealthy have someone else doing their shopping, and people with less money don't have the luxury of choice. We're stuck in the middle, agonizing over berries.
7. Upgrading to the nicer version of something
Economy plus on a long flight. The better hotel room. The product version with more features. Each upgrade comes with mental wrestling about whether you deserve the marginal improvement.
I've done this calculation dozens of times. The extra legroom costs sixty dollars. That's groceries for a week. But it's also five hours of not having my knees jammed into the seat ahead. The math isn't the problem—it's the feeling that comfort is somehow morally suspect. That choosing ease means you're weak or spoiled.
Final thoughts
The strange thing about middle-class guilt is that it doesn't make you more virtuous. It just makes you tired. You're not saving meaningful money by agonizing over olive oil. You're just denying yourself small pleasures while performing financial responsibility to an audience of no one.
Rudá's book reminded me that "When we let go of the need to be perfect, we free ourselves to live fully—embracing the mess, complexity, and richness of a life that's delightfully real." The middle-class performance of never quite deserving what you have is its own trap.
Maybe the most radical move is just enjoying what you can afford without turning it into a moral referendum. Buy the good olive oil. Take the sick day. Order the appetizer. You're allowed.
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