Chapter 01:
My Journey To Financial Freedom
There’s a moment in every life when something clicks- when a silent vow is made. Not out loud. Not to anyone else. But to yourself. It might be during a quiet walk home with an overdue bill in your hand. Or watching your parents argue over rent again. Or standing in the checkout line, putting things back because the card didn’t go through. That’s when you decide something has to change. You don’t say it, but you feel it.
For me, it started before I even understood what money really was.
I was raised in a household where we didn’t use words like “asset,” “investment,” or “portfolio.” We used words like “stretch it,” “make do,” and “maybe next time.” We were a middle-class family by title, but in practice, we were always walking the line. There was food, but the fridge was never full. There was rent, but never a cushion. There were birthdays, but no savings. And every month felt like a race between the bills and the bank account.
There were four of us—me, my two sisters, and my older brother. My sister was the oldest, and I was the youngest, which meant I got a front-row seat to everything. I watched how bills piled up. I saw the way tension filled a room when rent was due. I listened to arguments about money through those thin walls. It was never just about what we had. It was always about what we lacked.
I still remember my mother clipping coupons at the kitchen table like a job. Lining them up by category, matching them to the store ads, calculating exactly how far $100 could go. My father left for work before sunrise and came home long after dark, carrying the kind of exhaustion that rest couldn’t fix. He never complained. But I saw it in his shoulders, the way he slumped into the couch every evening. He was doing the best he could. They both were.
But no matter how hard my parents worked, the money never seemed to stretch far enough. It always felt like we were a step behind. My mother stayed home full-time, keeping the household running, raising four kids, and stretching every dollar like it had ten lives. She did what she could with what we had. I remember how tired she looked—how much she carried on her shoulders day after day. My father worked, but the income was limited. At the end of the week, they would whisper in the kitchen about what needed to be paid, what could wait, and what we’d have to do without. I saw the way financial stress built up between them- not loud, not dramatic, but always present. I watched them work hard for years, only to have very little to show for it. That left an imprint.
As a kid, I didn’t understand the weight they carried. I just knew that I couldn’t always ask for the same things other kids had. I knew better than to ask for new shoes if mine weren’t completely falling apart. I learned to sit quietly when my friends talked about summer camps, school trips, or getting money for good grades. I knew what the answer would be. "We can't right now. Maybe next time."
I didn’t realize then how much those moments were shaping me.
As time went on, things didn’t get any easier. Both of my parents started using drugs. First, it was quiet. Then it became a pattern. Then it took over. What little structure we had started to fall apart. The fridge stayed half empty. The bills stopped getting paid on time. Some days we had heat. Some days we didn’t. Even as a child, I understood that things weren’t normal. I could see it in the way other kids lived. I could feel it every time I had to lie at school about why I didn’t have lunch money or the right clothes for gym.
When you’re young and surrounded by struggle, you look for examples of what works. The problem is, in certain neighborhoods, the wrong things seem to be the only things that work. From where I come from, the people who had nice cars, who wore good clothes, who seemed confident and respected, weren’t the ones with nine-to-five jobs. They were the ones standing on corners, running operations, moving fast, and living louder than life. It was hard not to notice that. Hard not to admire it, even without understanding the whole picture.
At that age, no one sits you down to explain the difference between real success and the kind that burns out fast. So you start picking up on what you see. Who gets respected? Who doesn’t? Who has options. Who gets stuck? When you don’t see a lot of people around you winning the traditional way, it starts to feel like there’s only one route to get ahead. And you start thinking maybe that route is for you, too.
By the time I was a teenager, I had already started moving in directions I knew came with risk. A part of me questioned it, but another part felt like I didn’t have real options. I wanted more, and this was the fastest path to getting it in a world where nothing felt certain, control- even temporary- felt like freedom.
But even in those moments, a different voice lived in the back of my head. A voice that told me this wasn’t the life I was meant for, that surviving was not the same as living, and that deep down, I wanted peace, not just for me but for whatever future I could build.
I used to watch my parents and think, This can’t be it. This can’t be how life works- work hard, struggle, fall, and never recover. I didn’t judge them. I just refused to accept it as my destiny.
I didn’t know what the path would look like, but I knew I had to find one. I couldn’t keep watching the people I loved fall apart under the weight of financial stress. I couldn’t repeat the cycle and call it life. I needed to understand how money worked, how wealth was built, and how people protected what they earned and made it grow.
But wanting more isn’t enough. Everyone wants more. The question is: what are you willing to do differently?
What most people don’t understand is that growing up broke teaches you more about money than school ever will. When you have to stretch every dollar, you notice how much things cost. When you watch your parents stress about bills, you learn what pressure looks like. When you don’t have it, you start asking why others do.
I paid attention. Even before I had a job, I noticed who seemed to be winning and who always looked worn out. It wasn’t about working hard. My parents worked hard. Plenty of people around me did. The truth was, hard work alone wasn’t enough. Not if you didn’t know how to manage money, protect yourself, or plan for the future.
That became my first real financial lesson: effort without strategy leads to exhaustion, not wealth.
But the problem was, no one in my world talked about those things. We didn’t have dinner table conversations about credit scores or insurance policies. We weren’t taught about compound interest or real estate. What we did know came from experience, and most of it was painful.
So, I started teaching myself. I would ask questions. I would listen. I would watch how people moved. I would go to the library and read books I didn’t fully understand then. I knew that if I wanted a different life, I had to look outside of the one I was born into. And I wasn’t looking for a shortcut anymore. I was looking for a strategy. One that didn’t rely on luck or fast money. One that could hold up over time.
That’s when I realized that wealth isn’t just about money. It’s about knowledge. Mindset. Habits. Discipline and, most importantly, belief. If you don’t believe it’s possible, you won’t even try.
That’s the mindset shift many of us need to make- especially those of us who come from working-class families. We’re taught to survive, not to build. We’re taught to be thankful for the basics, not to reach for ownership. But let me be clear: you can honor where you came from and still want to do better. In fact, that’s one of the best ways to honor it.
I started to see money differently. Not as the enemy, not as the goal, but as a tool- something you could learn to use and master. I started to see wealth not as greed but as freedom- the freedom to take care of your family, the freedom to make choices, the freedom to say yes to things that matter and no to the things that don’t.
I wanted that freedom- not just for myself but for everyone around me. I aimed to be the one who changed the story, who turned struggle into strategy, and who proved that we don’t have to remain stuck just because we started there.
But nobody gave me a roadmap. Nobody handed me a blueprint. I didn’t have an inheritance. I didn’t have rich mentors. I had reality. And reality made me decide. I could either accept what I was born into or fight for something different.
So, I chose to fight.
I didn’t get it right every time. Even before I saw a credit report or filled out a loan application, I’d already made financial mistakes- I just didn’t know it yet. I didn’t know that using credit cards like free money would cost me later. I didn’t know late payments stayed with you like shadows you couldn’t shake. I didn’t know every financial move left a footprint, and I was walking blind.
I was trying. That’s the part that stung the most. I wasn’t out blowing money recklessly. I was working, trying to stay afloat, doing what I thought was right. But without the knowledge, every effort felt like swimming against the current. One mistake would lead to another. A missed payment here turned into a late fee there. That late fee snowballed into collections. Suddenly, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and every envelope in the mailbox felt like a warning. The more I tried to fix things, the deeper the hole got. And at some...
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