She sat up and twisted uncomfortably in the winged chair. “I grew up poor.”

She didn’t have to tell me. From our years together I knew it. It came out in how she continuously spoke of not having enough. It was telegraphed in each large luxury purchase that projected an aura of control and wealth, but decimated her net worth. It was silently suggested each time she had to cut a large check to help a family member in need - which happened far too frequently.

Yes, she grew up poor. And she was on the threshold of wealth. But if you told her that she’d never believe you.

I understood her conflict. Part of her wanted to revel in the newfound success and material possessions, while another part of her was stuck in the mindset of scarcity that came with growing up poor. It was as if she couldn't accept the possibility of her newly earned wealth and remained stuck in the habits of the past and the generations of lack that her family experienced before her.

I could see that her memories of growing up poor were heavily weighted on her. The wounds and shame of growing up poor ran deep and could not be healed with a few reassuring words.

She told me about the lights being cut off in her childhood home, repossessed cars, family evictions. She told me how her mother worked hard, but it was never enough. The tension in the home was thick - bills were never paid on time, creditors always called and there was never enough of anything. She told me of the shame of having her mother pay in the store with food stamps - before the EBT card when they had the old fashion book of stamps to pay for their food. The first and the fifteenth of the month was always beset with dread - it was the time that bills were due and inadequate paychecks were received

I sat in silence, waiting for her to speak again. After a few moments, she turned to me and said, "I don't know how to handle all of this.

The money…it's overwhelming. I feel like I'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop."