Chances are, I’m not alone in having money as a regular topic in my friend group. More precisely: the lack of it. Thankfully, these aren’t dramatic talks about survival, but the typical sighs of urban middle-class folks in their twenties, thirties, and forties. We have steady incomes, we work, pay bills, and still find some fun money. But like most, there’s always something each month we say, “this just can’t fit in right now.”
Someone suggests meeting at their place because coffee shops feel like a luxury. Another complains about the gas bill. We share a bag we’ve been eyeing with a note: “once I save up for it.” These are everyday, human moments—part complaint, part self-aware humor. I think they’re healthy too—we openly pay attention to money, prioritize, and save.
But there’s a friend who doesn’t just join these talks—she one-ups everyone. It’s like financial struggle is a competition, and the winner is the one who suffers the most. She talks about her money troubles with such passion and drama that sometimes I feel awkward. All while hanging up her newest fur coat in my hallway, arriving in her trendy new car—from that downtown apartment she rents on one of the priciest streets, which is roughly twice the size of mine.
It’s not about envy. Really, it’s not. It’s more about feeling uncomfortable.
Because what happens then?
We sit there while she talks about tightening her belt, even though her coat might cost more than my three months of groceries.
And I don’t know how to respond. Should I laugh? Stay silent? Ask questions? Or just nod with a sympathetic face?
Money is a sensitive topic
These moments are tricky because money is inherently sensitive. We don’t see each other’s bank accounts. We don’t know everyone’s obligations, family background, or support system. Someone with a high income might still feel insecure—maybe they spend more, have loans, or maintain a higher lifestyle. The phrase “I’m struggling financially” is relative.
But when the contrast is this obvious, it’s no longer just relative. It becomes a role.
And maybe that’s what really bothers me. It’s not that she has more money. It’s that she acts like we’re in the same boat when we’re not. Like she’s competing in hardship. Like she needs to be the one in the worst spot—even if everything around her clearly says otherwise.
That makes me wonder: what does she want from this? Sympathy? Connection? To not stand out? Or is her lifestyle so normal to her that she truly feels squeezed if she only buys two coats in a season?
Here comes the tough part: when is it time to speak up?
Because at some point, it’s not just awkward—it creates tension. When someone says “can’t afford it” but shows up the next day with a new designer bag, it starts to feel less credible. And credibility is a foundation of friendship.
But calling it out is risky. What if I hurt their feelings? What if they get defensive? What if they really do carry burdens we don’t know about?
Shame and insecurity around money can run deep—even for those who seem well off from the outside.
Maybe “calling out” isn’t the right phrase. It’s more about honest curiosity.
Maybe one day, in a private moment, I’ll ask: what exactly does she mean when she says she’s struggling financially? What does she feel she can’t afford, and what leaves her feeling lacking?
But I don’t know when that moment will come. Maybe it’s when staying silent hurts more than asking the uncomfortable question.
