When I was in college, my mom and I went to the store to buy my first computer. It was a moment I had been anticipating, but I couldn’t shake the nervousness. I knew this wasn’t a small investment. After selecting the computer and all the accessories needed for a proper setup, we headed to the checkout.
I remember seeing the total—just over $1,600. My mom didn’t pull out cash; instead, she used a credit card. At the time, I wasn’t a stranger to credit cards. In fact, I already had a few of my own. My journey into the world of credit began as soon as I got my first job. I thought having a credit card was essential to building credit, so I applied for several and ended up with as many as 10 at one time.
On the way home, I sat nervously in the passenger seat, wondering if this pricey machine would be just another toy I’d use briefly before losing interest. My mom shared the same concern. She reminded me of something my great-grandmother told her: “Take care of your child, provide what they need, and don’t worry about the cost. You can’t take the money with you when you die.” That philosophy had guided her decisions, and it’s part of why I never truly went without growing up.
But what I didn’t realize then was that love, generosity, and financial discipline must work hand-in-hand. While my mom gave her all to make sure I had what I needed, I inherited a mindset that didn’t prioritize saving, budgeting, or preparing for the future. That computer purchase wasn’t just a rite of passage—it was also the first in a long series of decisions where emotional spending outweighed financial strategy.
Looking back, that day marked the true beginning of my debt story. I didn’t know it then, but the way I viewed credit, money, and “needs” would follow me for years. And as I later learned, building credit doesn’t mean building debt.
