I didn’t understand money growing up. Not really. We didn’t talk about it.

I didn’t understand money growing up. Not really. We didn’t talk about it. We lived it.

Then came the credit cards.

At first they felt like permission. Then like oxygen. Then like quicksand.

The moment I understood what debt really was came late — embarrassingly late. I was sorting my mail at the little table in my apartment, surrounded by Star Wars toys and textbooks, and I saw the minimum payment line on a statement.

Not the total. Not the interest rate. The minimum.

It felt like a trapdoor had opened under my life. Like I had accidentally joined some adult conspiracy without meaning to.

That’s when shame found me. But so did responsibility.

And responsibility — not shame — is what finally woke me up.