I Lived on $1 a Day for 30 Days, Here’s What I Learned About Money

I Lived on $1 a Day for 30 Days, Here’s What I Learned About Money

A Raw, Transformative Journey into Scarcity, Simplicity, and the True Meaning of Value

I didn’t set out to make a statement. I wasn’t chasing attention or looking to inspire viral outrage. I simply wanted to understand genuinely, personally what it feels like to live with less. A lot less.

They say hundreds of millions of people survive on less than a dollar a day. But what does that really mean? How does it feel to wake up every day knowing your food, hygiene, and basic human dignity are balanced precariously on a single coin?

I decided to find out.

For 30 days, I lived on the equivalent of $1 a day, about 80 pence in local currency. No shortcuts. No handouts. No using what I already had unless I could afford it from within the daily budget. Every expense; food, toiletries, and basic personal needs, had to come from that $1.

This wasn’t poverty cosplay. This was an act of listening. Of empathy. Of shedding assumptions and facing discomfort in search of a deeper truth.

Ground Rules and Day One Shock

• To keep the experience authentic, I set clear, non-negotiable boundaries:

• No use of prior resources unless paid for under the $1 daily limit.

• No outside help, no free meals, and no borrowed items.

• Housing and utilities excluded, since the goal wasn’t homelessness but extreme budgeting on daily essentials.

Day one was a wake-up call. My budget bought me a handful of rice, a carrot, and one banana on sale, bruised, nearly spoiled. I made a bland broth with the rice and half the carrot. The banana was my “dessert.” That was it for the day.

By nightfall, the hunger pangs had set in. Not just the physical kind, but the aching knowledge that this was going to be far harder than I imagined.

Week One: The Shock of Scarcity

The first week was a blur of hunger, frustration, and uncomfortable realisations.

Food consumed my thoughts. My body, used to coffee and quick calories, went into withdrawal. I found myself anxious, moody, and distracted. Even walking past cafés or hearing the rustle of snack bags felt cruel.

I learned quickly to shop with forensic precision. I hunted down market stalls at closing time for end-of-day bargains. Tinned beans, lentils, and oats became my staples. Bulk bags of rice felt like gold.

The real shock wasn’t the hunger, it was the emotional drain. The pressure of budgeting every coin, of saying no to every craving, of constantly calculating costs, was mentally exhausting.

Week Two: Stretching and Strategising

By the second week, I started to adapt. Not thrive, just endure more efficiently.

I boiled lentils in batches and reused the cooking water for soups. A single onion was rationed across three meals. I found creative ways to make meals last longer adding water to stews, padding them with rice or potato peelings, anything to make it stretch.

One day, I scored a huge win: a reduced bag of misshapen carrots and potatoes for 40p. I made a soup so hearty I nearly wept with joy. It was the first time I felt full in days.

I also began to experience the social cost. I avoided friends and gatherings. I couldn’t afford the fare to meet up, let alone a drink. Even explaining what I was doing felt embarrassing.

Week Three: Mental Fatigue and Human Kindness

Week three nearly broke me.

A lingering cold set in nothing serious, but without access to fresh fruit or medicine, I felt helpless. I couldn’t afford citrus, so I made do with warm water and salt.

One particularly difficult morning, I stood outside a corner shop, eyeing the cheapest loaf of bread. I was 7p short. I turned to walk away when the shopkeeper, perhaps sensing my struggle, handed it to me anyway and said, “Next time.”

That bread fed me for three days.

These small gestures unexpected, unsought broke through the bleakness. They reminded me that while poverty isolates, kindness reconnects us. It taught me humility not just in receiving, but in learning to accept generosity without shame.

Week Four: Clarity in the Chaos

By the final stretch, something shifted inside me. My cravings had dulled. My budgeting was sharper. My meals were repetitive but predictable. I had found rhythm inside the routine.

I realised I had been forced to reckon with more than my stomach. I was relearning the meaning of value. A pound used to be nothing. Now, it was survival. Purpose. Potential.

I stopped wasting. I started appreciating. Every mouthful was earned, every gesture treasured. I began to reflect more deeply on my past spending habits, my assumptions about poverty, and the sheer mental load carried by those who live this way not for 30 days but for life.

Lessons I’ll Carry Forever

This experience wasn’t just about testing my willpower. It was about shedding comfort to see the world more clearly. I walked away with more than hunger pangs. I walked away with truth.

1. Scarcity shrinks your world.

When you’re poor, every decision becomes a crisis. Every trip, every social invitation, every bite of food is weighed against cost. The world doesn’t just become smaller, it becomes scarier.

2. Waste is a luxury.

I used to throw away leftovers without a thought. After this, I savoured every crust. Every spoonful mattered. It taught me that what we consider rubbish is often simply unappreciated abundance.

3. Convenience disconnects us.

Living like this forced me to engage with food, cooking, and budgeting in an intimate way. I chopped, boiled, rationed. I learned to stretch meals and eat slowly. It made me present.

4. Kindness means everything.

A shared meal. A waived coin. A free vegetable from a sympathetic vendor. These moments weren’t charity, they were lifelines. They reminded me that dignity is preserved through connection.

5. Empathy is a choice.

Most of us will never be forced to live like this. But choosing to walk however briefly in another’s shoes can change everything about how we see the world.

Life Beyond the Experiment

I won’t pretend I now understand poverty completely. I had an exit. An end date. That’s a privilege millions do not have.

But I do understand more. And I’ve changed in real, tangible ways.

I budget more carefully. I waste less. I cook with greater intention. I give more, especially to organisations working on food security and local aid. I speak up more when I hear others judge or assume about “the poor.”

Above all, I’m more grateful. Not performative, but in the quiet, grounded way that comes from having been without.

Final Reflection

Living on $1 a day was not a stunt. It was a lesson. One I didn’t fully anticipate, and one I’ll never forget.

It stripped away convenience, indulgence, and assumption. In their place, it left me with clarity, compassion, and the stark truth of how fragile our comforts truly are.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. I share this not to be congratulated, but to invite reflection.

What would your day look like on a single coin?

How would you eat? How would you feel?

Perhaps most importantly, how might we better support those who don’t have the choice?