I Was Addicted to Being Broke
Why being poor, powerless, and polite feels safer than taking full ownership of your life.
No one talks about the upside of being broke.
The upside is this:
When you’re poor, you don’t have to own anything.
You don’t have to ask for money.
You don’t have to declare your value.
You get to float—harmless, harmless, harmless.
No pressure. No risk. Just “poor old me.”
And for a while, I let that convenience destroy me.
I got strung along. I worked for free. I apologized for asking for what I earned.
Because deep down—I was addicted to my excuses.
They gave me something to hide behind.
They let me keep the fantasy that I was just “unfortunate,” not scared.
For a while, I kept saying it:
“I’m broke.”
“I’m poor.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m done.”
“I’m such an idiot.”
“I’m so frustrated.”
“I’m so powerless.”
I said it so often, I started to believe it.
But it wasn’t just honesty—it was a shield.
Because when I’m broke, I’m harmless. No weight. No voice. No responsibility. I don’t have to deliver. I don’t have to show up. I can disappear, politely.
And if I’m nothing, then I don’t have to face the consequence of being something.
This morning, something shifted.
She showed up again—my future wife.
She’s been appearing in my writings, my dreams.
I started imagining our life:
The names of our kids.
Mornings together.
Me up at 4 a.m., done with work before the kids wake up.
Cooking breakfast. Sharing chores. Taking walks on the beach.
Freedom. Simplicity. Love.
And then it hit me like a brick:
“How the hell am I going to give her that life if I can’t even sell myself now?”
“How will I tell my kids to chase their dreams when I never chased mine?”
“Am I really going to let her carry what I was too afraid to face?”
Will she end up working 40 hours, parenting alone, stretched thin while I hide behind fear and ego?
Will I let that happen?
No.
That would be theft.
That would be selfish.
Most talented young creatives stay broke because they’re too afraid to name their value, too polite to ask for money, and too disconnected from ownership.
I was one of them—until this week.
At some point, you wake up and realize:
The life you’re building right now is the life your family will inherit.
Your children.
Your wife.
Your DNA.
I call it the legacy switch—
because when your self-worth is in the dirt, sometimes the only thing that will pull it out
is the future pain you’ll cause others by doing nothing.
It’s generative drive—
and it’s 10x stronger than any self-love affirmation.
Here’s what I realized:
Selfishness isn’t just greed.
It’s suffocating inside your own insecurities, so afraid of discomfort that you’d rather stay poor than admit you need to grow.
It’s killing your health.
Your wealth.
Your dreams.
All because you won’t own it:
Your worth.
Your time.
Your output.
Your impact.
I hated consequence.
I feared the mirror that said, “This was your fault.”
But also the one that might say, “This was your win.”
It was easier to be nothing than risk being something.
And I knew—if I didn’t change something in that moment, it would be my destiny.
Because as long as I’m telling myself, “It’s fine, the work is free, it doesn’t matter,”
then I never have to be excellent.
Never have to be honest.
Never have to face feedback.
No payment = no consequence.
I said I hated consequence.
But really—I hated the version of me that refused to earn it.
I was sleeping on my parents’ couch.
My back ached.
The bathroom was moldy—I blamed my siblings.
The air quality was awful—I ignored the broken filter.
None of it was the problem.
I was.
I thought being polite would open doors.
I thought talent was enough.
I thought someone would see the effort and offer me more.
That didn’t happen.
What happened was: I got strung along. I worked for free. I apologized for asking for what I earned.
So I sat down and got honest.
I made the ask.
Because:
I’d rather be clear, sharp, and paid
than leave the poverty of my actions to my future kids—
punting my insecurities down the generational curve.
I don’t want sympathy.
I want sovereignty.
And it starts with owning my value
and building the kind of work no one can ignore.
I had to shift the generational curve.
Being broke is easy.
It’s familiar.
It lets you shrink your standard of living until your fire dies.
But if you don’t take the pain now, you forward it—to your future wife, your kids, your community.
You hand them the weight of your unaddressed fear.
And that’s not love. That’s negligence.
So look at your life.
Look at where you're comfortable.
Look at where you're quiet.
Then demand more.
Or die with an unwritten story and burdens passed down to the next generation.
The choice is yours.
—Dittmar