Despite earning six figures as a financial analyst, I still pull restaurant plates back from waiters insisting "I'm still working on it" when I'm actually full—because some childhood lessons about waste and scarcity get carved so deep into your bones that no amount of success can fully extract them.
Ever catch yourself turning off lights in hotel rooms you're paying for, or feeling guilty about throwing away a half-eaten meal at a restaurant?
I do this constantly. Last week, I was at a business dinner at one of those places where the entrees cost more than my family's entire grocery budget used to be for a week. As I looked at my barely touched plate, knowing I was too full to continue, I felt that familiar knot in my stomach. The waiter reached for it, and I actually pulled it back slightly, saying "I'm still working on it."
I wasn't. But the guilt of waste was louder than logic.
Growing up without much money leaves marks that no amount of financial success can fully erase. Even after years working as a financial analyst, making more money than I ever imagined possible as a kid, certain behaviors stick with me like shadows. They show up in boardrooms, at social gatherings, in my own home when no one's watching.
If you grew up counting pennies too, you might recognize yourself in some of these habits. And honestly? Understanding them has helped me navigate them better, even if they never fully disappear.
1. Hoarding free things I don't need
You know those little shampoo bottles from hotels? I have a drawer full of them. Conference swag bags? I take everything, even the branded stress balls I'll never use. Free samples at the grocery store? You bet I'm circling back for seconds, even if I don't particularly like what they're offering.
Recently, I helped organize a community event at our local farmers' market. At the end, there were leftover tote bags, maybe thirty of them. The rational part of my brain knew I already had plenty of reusable bags at home. But watching other volunteers leave them behind felt almost painful. I took five.
This isn't about being cheap or greedy. It's about a deep-seated fear that opportunities don't come twice. When you grow up understanding that "free" might be the only way you get something, turning it down feels like betraying your past self, the one who needed those things.
2. Apologizing for taking up space
In meetings, I still catch myself starting sentences with "This might be a dumb question, but..." or "Sorry if someone already covered this..." Even when I know my point is valid. Even when I'm the expert in the room.
It's like I'm constantly trying to make myself smaller, less noticeable, less of a burden. Growing up, taking up space meant using resources. Resources were limited. So you learned to shrink, to apologize for existing too loudly or needing too much.
A colleague once told me, "You apologize before saying brilliant things. It's like you're asking permission to be smart." That hit hard. But recognizing this pattern hasn't made it disappear. I still do it, though now I sometimes catch myself mid-apology and course-correct.
3. Mentally calculating the cost of everything
Someone suggests lunch at a new place, and before I even consider if I want to go, I'm on their website checking menu prices. Not because I can't afford it, but because the mental math never stops. This sandwich costs two hours of minimum wage work. That coffee is half of what my mom used to budget for our entire day's food.
The calculations are automatic, like breathing. They happen at charity events where I'm supposed to bid on auction items for a good cause. They happen when friends suggest weekend trips. They happen when I'm buying groceries and see organic strawberries next to regular ones.
Financial literacy is valuable, sure. But this goes beyond being money-conscious. It's a constant awareness of worth versus cost that can suck the joy out of experiences that should be pleasant.
4. Keeping broken things "just in case"
My garage is a graveyard of items that might be fixable someday. A vacuum that barely works, old laptops that take twenty minutes to boot up, clothes with stains I keep thinking I'll figure out how to remove.
When you grow up poor, everything has potential for a second life. Throwing something away that might be salvageable feels irresponsible, wasteful, almost morally wrong. What if I need it later? What if I could have fixed it?
I once spent an entire weekend trying to repair a $15 desk lamp. The replacement part cost $12, plus hours of my time that I could have spent trail running or working in my garden. But the principle of not wasting, of making things last, overruled logic.
5. Eating past fullness to avoid waste
Remember that business dinner I mentioned? This happens all the time. At home, at restaurants, at friends' houses. If there's food on my plate, I feel compelled to finish it, even when my body is clearly telling me to stop.
"Clean your plate" wasn't just a suggestion growing up; it was a moral imperative. Food waste meant money waste, and money waste was a luxury we couldn't afford. Now, even though I can afford to let food go, even though I know overeating isn't healthy, that voice is still there.
I've tried various strategies to combat this. Smaller plates at home, immediately boxing half my restaurant meal, reminding myself that my body isn't a garbage can. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I still find myself uncomfortably full, guilty about the alternative.
6. Stockpiling basics like the apocalypse is coming
Open my pantry and you'll find enough rice and beans to survive a siege. Check my bathroom cabinet and there's probably a two-year supply of toothpaste. When something I use regularly goes on sale, I buy it like it might never be discounted again.
This habit actually served me well during the early pandemic when everyone else was panic-buying. I just smiled and worked through my stockpile. But in normal times? It's excessive.
The fear of running out, of not having enough, of prices going up tomorrow, it all lives in my bones. Security looks like full shelves, like backup plans for backup plans. Even though I've had steady income for years, even though I saved aggressively during my finance days and have a solid emergency fund, the scarcity mindset persists.
7. Feeling guilty about success
This might be the hardest one to admit. Sometimes I downplay my accomplishments or current situation because I feel guilty about having "made it" when so many haven't. When family members struggle financially, when I see others facing the challenges I grew up with, success feels like betrayal.
I left finance partly because the money felt hollow, but also because I couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't deserve it. That somehow, earning good money meant I'd abandoned my roots, forgotten where I came from.
Even now, doing work I find meaningful, writing about topics I care about, there's this voice that says I should be grateful for any income at all. That wanting more, asking for more, expecting more is greedy.
Final thoughts
These habits aren't flaws to be fixed or embarrassments to hide. They're survival mechanisms that served a purpose, evidence of resilience and resourcefulness. They're reminders of where I came from and what shaped me.
Some days they feel like burdens, making simple decisions unnecessarily complex. Other days, they ground me, keeping me grateful and conscious of privilege I now have.
The goal isn't to erase these patterns completely. Maybe it's about finding balance, honoring the part of me that learned to survive while giving myself permission to thrive. To occasionally leave food on my plate without guilt. To pay full price for something I need right now instead of waiting for a sale. To take up space without apologizing.
If you recognize yourself in any of these habits, know that you're not alone. Our past experiences shape us in ways that success can't simply overwrite. And maybe that's okay. Maybe carrying these habits means we never forget the strength it took to get here, even as we learn, slowly, to loosen their grip.
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