I Spent My 20s Obsessed With Saving Money, and It Was a Huge Mistake
I have a full bank account and an empty memory bank. Here is why being "smart" with money cost me my youth.
At twenty-two, I found a book about financial independence lying on a coffee table. I read it in one sitting, and it changed my life—and looking back, maybe not for the better.
The book taught me about the magic of "Compound Interest." It taught me that a dollar saved today could be worth ten dollars in the future if invested correctly. It became my religion. I looked at the world not through the eyes of a young man, but through the lens of a calculator.
While my friends were booking flights to Thailand, Europe, or road-tripping across the country for summer break, I was sitting in my dimly lit room, updating my spreadsheets. I was calculating how much that $2,000 trip would actually "cost" them in future potential wealth.
“You guys are crazy,” I told them over cheap beer (which I only drank because someone else bought it). “Do you know that if you invested that travel money, you could retire two years early?”
I felt superior. I felt like the only adult in a room full of impulsive children. I told myself I was winning the game.
I became extreme.
I skipped the weekly dinners because "eating out is a waste."
I drove a car that rattled terrifyingly when it went over 40 mph because "cars are depreciating assets."
I lived in an apartment with paper-thin walls to save on rent, listening to my neighbors argue every night.
I wore shoes until they had holes in the soles, convinced that buying a new pair was a luxury I didn't need yet.
Every time I said "No" to an invitation, I got a little dopamine hit. I checked my bank account, watched the number go up, and felt safe.
By the time I turned thirty, I had reached my goal. I looked at my bank account, and the number was impressive. I had more savings than anyone I knew. I was technically "safe." I was "successful." I had built the fortress of security I always wanted.
But then, a few weeks ago, the cracks in my fortress appeared.
I went to a reunion dinner with those same friends. We sat around a large table, the air filled with the smell of roasted chicken and laughter.
They were telling stories.
They talked about that trip to Thailand—the time they got lost in the jungle and had to hitchhike back.
They laughed about the night they slept on a beach in Spain because they missed the last ferry.
They reminisced about the concerts, the bad decisions, the shared moments of pure, unadulterated joy.
Their eyes lit up when they spoke. They had a shared language of memories that I didn't speak.
I sat there, sipping my water, and realized something terrifying: I had no stories.
I couldn't say, “Remember that time I saved $500 on my heating bill in 2016 by wearing a coat inside?”
I couldn't say, “Remember how great my investment portfolio looked in 2018?”
No one cares about your spreadsheet. And suddenly, sitting in that loud, happy room, neither did I.
I realized that I had treated my life like a business to be optimized, not an experience to be lived. I had traded my energy, my youth, and my freedom for a number on a screen. I had prepared so much for the future that I completely forgot to live in the present.
Here is the truth that financial gurus won't tell you: Money comes back. Time does not.
You can always earn another dollar. You can always get another job. But you will never again be twenty-five with your best friends and no responsibilities. You can travel when you are sixty, sure. But it won't be the same. Your back will hurt, your energy will be lower, your tolerance for discomfort will be gone, and some of those friends might be gone too.
There is an "inflation" on experiences. A cheap hostel trip is fun and adventurous when you are young; it is miserable when you are older. I missed the window for that specific kind of joy.
I am not saying you should be reckless. I am not saying you should go into debt to buy designer clothes or luxury cars you can't afford. That is foolish.
But there is a balance I completely missed.
If you are in your 20s, please, buy the concert ticket.
Take the trip.
Buy the round of drinks for your friends once in a while.
Eat the expensive steak on your birthday.
I am now sitting on a pile of cash, desperately wishing I could use it to buy back the memories I never made. But the store is closed.
Don't be like me. Don't be the richest person in the graveyard of forgotten youth. Live a little, before you forget how.
About the Creator
Noman Afridi
I’m Noman Afridi — welcome, all friends! I write horror & thought-provoking stories: mysteries of the unseen, real reflections, and emotional truths. With sincerity in every word. InshaAllah.
Keep reading
More stories from Noman Afridi and writers in Humans and other communities.
I Married the Love of My Life, and I Have Never Felt More Alone
If you looked at our Instagram profile, you would probably hate us. We look perfect. We go on date nights every Friday at the trendiest restaurants. We smile broadly in photos at weddings, our arms wrapped around each other. We hold hands when we walk into parties, projecting the image of a solid, unbreakable unit. Our friends constantly tell me, “You guys are so lucky. You are relationship goals.” I smile, say thank you, and squeeze his hand. Then I go home, lock the bathroom door, turn on the shower so he can’t hear me, and sit on the floor in silence because it is the only place I can breathe. I love my partner. That is not the issue. He is a good man. He works hard to provide for us. He doesn't raise his voice. He is kind to my parents. He remembers anniversaries and buys me flowers on Valentine's Day. On paper, he is everything a woman should want. But somewhere along the way, we stopped being "soulmates" and started being "roommates." The loneliness didn't happen overnight. It wasn't a sudden explosion. It was a slow, quiet erosion, like water wearing down a rock. It started when we stopped asking, “How are you really feeling?” and started asking, “Did you pay the electric bill?” It started when we stopped talking about our dreams, our fears, and our wild ideas, and started talking only about logistics. Schedules. Groceries. Chores. The maintenance of life took over the living of it. Now, our evenings are a perfectly choreographed routine. We sit on the same sofa, watching the same TV show, but we are miles apart. He is scrolling on his phone, laughing at videos I can't hear; I am reading a book I don't talk to him about. There is a physical body next to me—warm, breathing, familiar—but the emotional connection feels like a ghost that haunts the house. There is a specific, sharp kind of pain in this. When you are single, you expect to be alone. You make peace with the silence. You fill it with friends, hobbies, music, and noise. You own your solitude. But when you are married, the loneliness feels like a betrayal. You think, “I signed a contract against this feeling. I promised to share my life. Why do I feel so isolated?” I remember our last anniversary dinner. We were at a beautiful Italian restaurant, surrounded by candlelight. We ordered our food. We commented on the wine. And then… silence. I looked at him, desperate for connection. I wanted to talk about how I was feeling anxious about my job, or how I missed painting. But he was looking around the room, distracted. “The service is slow tonight,” he muttered. That was it. That was our conversation. I realized then that he sees me, but he doesn't see me. He sees the wife who manages the house, not the woman who is screaming inside. I try to talk to him sometimes. I say, “I feel like we’re drifting. I feel lonely.” He looks confused, genuinely baffled. “What do you mean? We’re fine. We just had dinner together. I’m right here.” He thinks "presence" is the same thing as "connection." He doesn't understand that you can hold someone’s hand and still can’t feel their heart. He thinks that because we aren't fighting, we are happy. He doesn't realize that the opposite of love isn't hate; it's indifference. I realized recently that I am grieving. I am grieving the loss of the person who used to look at me across a crowded room and know exactly what I was thinking. Now, I have to explain my sadness to him like I am explaining a complicated math problem, and he still doesn't get the answer. I am writing this because I know I am not the only one. I know there are thousands of people reading this right now, sitting next to their spouses on a comfortable couch, feeling completely invisible. It is a terrifying realization: Being single is lonely. But being with someone who makes you feel alone is shattering. I don't know if we will fix this. I don't know if couples counseling can bridge a gap this wide. I don't know if we will survive another year. But I know that I cannot keep pretending. Tonight, I will turn off the TV. I will put down my phone. I will turn to him and ask a real question. Not about the bills. Not about dinner. But about us. If he answers, maybe we have a chance. If he turns away, then at least I will know the truth. We are taught to fear divorce, to see it as a failure. But perhaps we should fear a loveless, silent marriage even more. Because wasting your life waiting to be seen is the ultimate tragedy.
By Noman Afridiabout a month ago in Humans
Miss Persephone's Manual to a Seemingly Ordinary Life
Miss Persephone was found at the dining table, her blue eyes swollen, her tears arriving and retreating like the tides of the ocean. Earlier that day, her family had visited her in the retirement home where she had lived for eight years. It was her eightieth birthday.
By Imola Tóth3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.