Michael used to sleep with his phone under his pillow—not because he was waiting for an important call, but because the vibration from his banking app alerts would jolt him awake. Another overdraft. Another minimum payment. Another “you’re out of money” moment that felt like failure.

By day, he was a charismatic twenty-nine‑year-old marketing manager with a magnetic LinkedIn profile and a talent for storytelling. By night, he was dodging collection calls, ghosting his student loan portal, and panic-refreshing his credit card balance before trying to buy groceries. He didn’t always live like this; it happened slowly. First came the student loans—he told himself everyone had them. Then the credit cards—just for textbooks, at first. Then Uber Eats, because he was too tired to cook after ten‑hour workdays. The car lease “to look professional.” The drinks to network. The vacations to “reward himself” for surviving burnout. The shame crept in quietly, disguised as lifestyle. As performance. As “normal.” But here’s the thing about shame: it loves secrecy. And the more Michael tried to fix it alone, the worse it got.

Research from the American Psychological Association shows that financial stress is one of the top contributors to anxiety and depression, especially among millennials and Gen Z. And when stress becomes chronic, it hijacks the brain’s executive functioning, which makes it harder to plan, act, or solve problems. In other words: stress about money exacerbates financial problems. And avoiding dealing with debt doesn’t mean you’re lazy—it means your nervous system is overwhelmed.

Michael kept telling himself, “I’ll open the bills tomorrow.” “I’ll fix this when I get a raise.” “Once I pay off one card, the rest will be easy.” But avoidance breeds more avoidance. And eventually, even opening his mailbox felt like a threat.

It wasn’t until he missed his sister’s birthday dinner—too embarrassed to say he couldn’t afford the meal—that the dam broke. He collapsed. Told a friend everything. And something surprising happened: instead of judgment, he got a story. The friend had been there too—once sobbing on the bathroom floor over an $18 overdraft fee. The pain Michael felt wasn’t his alone. Countless others had lived it; he just hadn’t known where to find help.

According to the National Endowment for Financial Education, seven in ten Americans say they’ve struggled with debt at some point—and a third say it negatively affects their relationships, health, and work. What’s rarely talked about, however, is how debt messes with identity. Michael didn’t just owe money. He felt like he was the debt. “I earn more than I ever thought I would—and I still feel like I’m drowning,” he said.

But debt isn’t a moral failure. It’s a complex mix of systemic pressures, emotional habits, and psychological conditioning. Michael learned that the first step wasn’t budgeting—it was compassion. He started small. He downloaded a debt-tracker app, but didn’t open it for three days. Just having it on his phone felt like progress. Naming the problem out loud took even longer. But eventually, Michael booked a session with a financial coach. He expected to be shamed. Instead, he was seen.

“I feel broken,” he admitted through tears.

The coach didn’t flinch. “Broken people don’t show up to sessions,” she said. “Brave ones do.”

Debt has a way of isolating people. It makes you feel like you’re the only one who’s screwed up. Like you should’ve known better. Like you don’t deserve help until you’ve “fixed it.” And among younger generations, the shame can be even more acute: a 2022 NerdWallet study found that 70 percent of millennials and Gen Z respondents said they feel embarrassed about their debt. Many avoid asking for help because they think they should already know what to do.

Michael didn’t need more willpower. He needed relief. And relief came when he stopped hiding—and reached out. His financial coach didn’t just give him a plan—she gave him a place to be honest without judgment. She helped him create systems; but more importantly, she gave him back his sense of agency.

Let’s be honest: most of us were never really taught how to manage money in a way that felt good. If you’re like me, you may have grown up hearing conflicting messages: “Money doesn’t grow on trees.” “Work hard and save.” “Buy a home and you’ll be set.” And maybe, just maybe, “Make sure you marry rich.” That last one? It was something my mom actually said to me—often. She meant well. She was scared. And like so many........

© The Walrus