I knew Mom’s hiding spot: the little chest on top of her dresser. As a teenager, I’d slip into my parents’ room when they weren’t home and pocket $5 or $10. Later, I’d feel only a hint of guilt as I slurped my Jamba Juice under the suburban San Diego sun. Mostly, I was nervous I’d get caught. Anything I made from my weekend waitressing gig flew quickly out of my hands, spent shopping. I hoped the stuff I bought would cure me of my self-consciousness as I stumbled into adulthood.
Fifteen years later, I was still broke. My fiancé and I listened, stone-faced, as our financial advisor explained that the interest on my ballooning credit card debt would make it difficult to save for children or a house.
I was $10,000 in the hole. I had a salaried job, but I spent wildly on discounted clothing and vintage home decor, and had a sneaking suspicion I might be one of the approximately 5% of Americans with compulsive buying disorder. But I was too embarrassed to admit it. The more I bought, the less value anything had — and the less I valued myself. Still, I couldn’t stop.
My spending mirrors a broader national affliction. It seems many of us can’t quit shopping, even as our wallets are shrinking. This Black Friday was the largest ever online, despite inflation and the affordability crisis, and consumer spending is on track to exceed a trillion dollars this holiday season — an all-time high. In fact, Americans have spent more than $44.2 billion online since Thanksgiving, and “buy now, pay later” debt is skyrocketing. America has a collective $1.23 trillion credit card balance.
I’d done my part to boost that number. The day after our meeting with our financial advisor, I tiptoed around our Washington, D.C., rental, wracked by guilt as my fiancé transferred $10,000 to my bank account. “There’s good debt and bad debt,” our advisor had counseled. My partner had some money tucked away and wanted to put my very bad debt behind us. For good measure, he added another $10,000 to my empty savings account. “For emergencies,” he warned.
He was a software engineer, while I was a federal worker, so we faced a sizable income gap. As a feminist, determined to be self-sufficient, I balked at being so reliant on a man. But I reluctantly agreed.
“Soon, we’ll have shared finances anyway,” he reassured me as our wedding approached. My debt would be his, too — better to deal with it together. There was no shame in it, he insisted, and I wasn’t a lousy person. “But this is a hard boundary,” he gently reminded me as we sat down to breakfast. “No more debt.”
It was a test, one I had to pass — for the sake of both my relationship and my own self-respect.
But I failed. And failed again.
Courtesy of Madison Chapman
I wondered if my issue was ancestral. My grandpa came from a poor farming family and fled the Dust Bowl as a child, sardined with his siblings into an old Ford from Arkansas to California. He eventually joined the Highway Patrol and built a middle-class life in which stuff signified success. My parents worked hard to expand on that legacy, and I had a comfortable upbringing. Mom loved a sale. We spent many a happy Saturday together at Nordstrom Rack, listening to the soothing click-clack of hangers as we browsed. In my youthful naiveté, I didn’t notice how even discounted finds added up.
The new clothing and makeup I bought gave me a sense of control over my young life — a common driver for shopping. As a teenager, I couldn’t prevent the legendary arguments that raged at home, but new shoes made me feel brave. When stress became too much, spending became my coping mechanism, as a way to stave off depression with each endorphin-fueled spree.
In college, I splurged on travel and craft coffee, desperate to prove I’d outgrown my hometown and entered a more mature phase of life. That’s when I met him — the shy, kind, slightly strange computer geek who lived across the hall in our co-ed dormitory. It was a fast friendship until we realized it was love. We graduated giddy with the certainty that we would stay together.
He was still by my side when I turned 25 and started treatment for lymphoma. Credit bought me non-toxic face lotion, stacks of books to read in chemotherapy, and jewelry to distract from my bald spot. I held tight to it all, each item a promise I’d get better — or be remembered fondly by the stuff I left behind. But the buzz of new purchases dulled with time. I went into remission after six months of chemotherapy and radiation, but my urge to shop remained strong. Like any addict, I craved more.
It was only when we started living together a year later that my partner saw my problem for what it was. Even so, we’d been through it all for a couple so young; he’d been my primary caregiver, and cancer had only brought us closer. We got engaged.
After that session with our financial advisor, my fiancé insisted on a weekly couples’ money chat and more transparency into my spending. A few months later and after nearly a decade together, we tied the knot beneath redwoods, vowing to cherish and forgive. We opened a joint checking account that alerted the other whenever someone swiped our shared card. I used an online tracker to manually input every dollar I spent, eager to show my husband and myself that I could change.
Courtesy of Aryk Copley Photography
Yet my unshakable panic about cancer relapse fueled a spending relapse. Soon I couldn’t leave the house without stopping for a pricey treat: a loaf of artisanal bread, a matcha latte to take the edge off. I began making excuses to avoid our weekly check-in because I knew my bank statement would only incriminate me. The cancer kicked off post-traumatic stress disorder that spiked my screentime, too. Mindless scrolling made me an easy mark for advertising. I’d perk up at the cheerful knock of a FedEx worker but then conceal the deliveries — the thrill of each package swinging into prickly shame.
Worst, I was back in debt. My inability to stick to our careful budget meant I’d also spent the $10,000 emergency savings my now-husband had generously gifted me. Because I hadn’t used it as intended, I’d essentially stolen his hefty bailout, a painful fact not lost on either of us.
“I can’t trust you,” he confessed one evening over leftovers, stoic.
“At all?” I responded meekly.
The kitchen suddenly felt tight as I became a stranger in my own body.
“No, I trust you more than anyone,” he clarified. “But on money, you’ve completely lost my trust.”
While guilt hadn’t grabbed me when I nicked Mom’s loose bills as a teenager, it consumed me now. The next week, as I continued to bury my illicit boxes at the bottom of the recycling bin, our conversation was on repeat in my head.
Seamless payments made the money I spent online feel fake — weightless. I remained trapped in a spending cycle, even as my friends were having children, becoming homeowners and paying off loans. My stuff had fooled me into contentment while I drifted further from the financial independence I’d craved. Meanwhile, I’d justified dishonesty with my husband and lost my attention span. If online algorithms were meant to keep me endlessly scrolling to boost corporate profit, they’d worked. I clicked for hours on end, numb to the world and caught up in advertisements I hoped could open a portal to a better me.
My cancer was in remission, but I was wasting the life I’d fought so hard to save. As the holidays crept nearer, all my lovely stuff suddenly seemed toxic, a symbol of the many ways I’d failed myself and betrayed the person I loved. So, after many long talks, we redoubled our efforts to crush my addiction — together.
Courtesy of Madison Chapman
I explored the roots of my problem in therapy and admitted my issue compassionately to others and to myself. I temporarily paused my credit cards and got a phone-blocking device I couldn’t simply override. I unsubscribed from most text and e-mail marketing and checked my shriveled bank account daily, until my blood pressure stayed put. I sold off old clothing and learned to shop my closet instead. I cleared up my digital wallet and used debit wherever possible. I spent only what I’d earned.
Recently, I rushed upstairs to share some big news with my spouse: my credit cards were paid off.
“I’m proud of you,” my husband beamed. “I knew you could do it.”
I was even prouder of myself. I even have some money squirreled away for once, and I’m managing anxiety with better habits: yoga, walks in the park, taking my anti-depressants consistently. I’ve also reframed self-care. Rather than buying everything I want when I want it, I now have an account to treat myself. I deposit just $100 a month, a fraction of my previous binges. Watching it grow is a joy, knowing with some delayed gratification, I’ll be able to buy something special — without bruising my self-worth.
Of course, my addiction geared toward frivolities like athleisure and skincare — my debt was for stuff I could live without.
Not all are so fortunate. The average American struggles to afford everyday expenses, and about 48% of Americans now rely on “survival debt” to pay for basic necessities. Child care costs continue to soar, unemployment is up, and more families are missing utility payments. Households spend, on average, 30% of their monthly income on housing, and a quarter of people have used loans to afford skyrocketing grocery prices. High interest rates on the credit used to cover these fundamentals can accumulate, trapping households in a vicious cycle of chronic debt.
Meanwhile, widespread federal health insurance subsidies are set to expire this month. Millions who rely on the Affordable Care Act marketplace will see their premiums more than double next year, to a staggering $1,904 on average. As a result, enrollees will be forced to make impossible choices. Many will jump off insurance, spiral into medical debt, or forego necessary treatments entirely.
On top of all this, the U.S. financial landscape is rife with predatory lending and banks offering absurdly high credit limits. Regardless of whether consumers can repay what they’ve borrowed, these rampant practices continue amid patchy regulatory oversight. Interest rate caps vary widely between states and junk fees remain legal in parts of the country.
Courtesy of Madison Chapman
It was only possible for me to climb out of debt because I was privileged to have a stable job that paid the rent, a partner who earned enough to tidy up my messes, and the access and means to get the support I needed to face my underlying issues. In the face of mounting economic hardship nationwide, my shopping debt seems almost quaint — and I’m doubling down on staying out of it.
My thumbs still navigate to my favorite online haunts more often than I’d like. But by letting what I truly value guide me, I can better bounce back when I slip. This holiday, I’m setting spending limits, gifting experiences to be savored and shared, and focusing on the immaterial and invaluable: honesty, gratitude and time spent with loved ones.
It’s already working. Last week, my husband and I spent our weekly date night at a bustling holiday market, chilly and crisp under the glow of string lights. Each stall called out with bright wares begging to come home with me. But tightly bundled in my winter coat, I never once reached for my credit card.
I only reached for his hand.
Madison Chapman is a writer and proud young adult cancer survivor based in Washington, D.C. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, TIME, Outside, and elsewhere. Find more from her on Bluesky @madisonchapman.bsky.social.
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