A scarcity mindset is hard to shake. It scratches a groove into your psyche that’s hard to haul yourself out of, and it’s never accidental. Mine began as the child of parents who grew up in the shadow of WW II. My sisters and I still remember tales of ration coupons and making do with less — my favourite example was war cake, a miraculous confection somehow made without eggs, milk or butter.

Poverty was never far from my parents upbringing in mid-century industrial Cape Breton. Mom recalled that in 1940s Sydney you knew which families didn’t have much money, because when their kids bent over, “you could see Robin Hood.” That meant their mothers had sewn clothes out of flour sacks, exposing the logo when they leaned over. Or so she claimed.

Thanks to hard work and education, my folks gave our family a solidly middle-class lifestyle, but a scarcity mindset was a constant background. Nothing was willingly thrown out, whether it was old containers, clothes, power cords — you might be able to use them later, and God forbid you’d buy something twice in a lifetime.

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

When we wanted a table for the backyard, a giant cast-off cable spool from a construction site magically appeared. Dad was always there to hammer the lesson home, asking where I was going to find the money to get the things I wanted. How was I going to make ends meet on my own? What was I going to do if such-and-such happened? There might have been genuine concern underneath the questions, but instead of preparing me for life, they instilled a fear that it would chew me up and spit me out. When I went out into the world, the mindset tagged along.

I don’t blame mom and dad for how I think — they were wonderful parents, but growing up with those messages had an effect.

The thought of getting new clothes instead of repairing the current ones never occurred to me. Looking back, I wonder how many people actually darned socks in the 21st century instead of simply buying new ones. On trips I stayed in hostels unless it was on the company dime, because why pay for a hotel room when you can get a bed and toilet privileges for a fraction of the price? Why buy lunch or coffee at work when you can bring them from home and save money? Why take an Uber or the subway when you can walk and save a few bucks? Who cares if it’s pouring rain?

Destitute and on the Street

Underneath all that penny-pinching was the irrational belief that if I didn’t scrimp and save, I was going to end up penniless and destitute in my old age. It didn’t matter who pointed out how tremendously unlikely that scenario was, because the worry was too deeply ingrained. It would have been like telling an arachnophobe that tarantulas are actually soft and harmless: the truth is irrelevant when illogical beliefs are running the show.

So I earned and scrimped and saved, investing as much as possible, knowing that each paycheque meant just a little more cushioning between me and my self-inflicted spectre of poverty.

But one day, something changed. It snuck up on me: I realized I was actually likely to retire in the foreseeable future. That was no longer some far-flung horizon: it was years — not decades — away. I looked at my bank account and wondered, “How am I going to spend this money?” That wouldn’t be a challenge for most people: I’m not talking about millions of dollars. But for someone who treated money like a scarce resource to be conserved at all costs, it’s harder than you think.

Embracing your Inner Spend

I decided I needed to be ok with the idea of spending, even if I couldn’t fully embrace it. I feel a little guilty saying that, because we live in a world where the evils of conspicuous consumption and consumer culture are so thoroughly condemned. But I don’t have kids, so unless I want to leave it all to charity, I feel I should learn to enjoy the fruits of my labour while I can. I earned them, after all.

But that might be the hardest part: telling myself I’m worth spending money on, after so many years of denial.

I’m starting small. Once a week it’s now ok to buy lunch, and not pack the 3,000th salad of my career. Buying a latte now and then isn’t going to break the bank. Spending $30 on a tin of luxury tea would have seemed like an irrational indulgence a year ago. Now it feels like a challenge: can I treat myself? Can I actually enjoy spending money on me?

In Search of the Big Ticket

There are bigger-ticket items I’d like: my bike is 25 years old and held together with hockey tape and hope. I’ve kept it going for a quarter century, but its best days are behind it, and I’d like a ride from the current millennium.

So in March I’ll make the rounds of bike shops to see if I can embrace my hard-earned cash as something to be enjoyed, not accumulated for its own sake. After that, who knows? A new laptop? A trip? We’ll see.

I’m trying to accept the idea that I have enough, and I can’t take it with me, so I had better start enjoying it. That means learning to buy.