I realized I had a problem the day I bought a second wallet… to hold the emotional weight of the first wallet’s bad decisions.
It didn’t feel like a problem at first. It felt like progress. I told myself I was “leveling up.” You know, becoming the kind of person who owns things that come in matte black and require a YouTube review before purchasing. Somewhere along the line, I stopped buying stuff and started auditioning for a lifestyle I absolutely did not have.
I remember standing in my kitchen, staring at a $300 blender like it was going to change my future. “This is it,” I thought. “This is the blender that turns me into a smoothie guy.” I have made exactly one smoothie. It tasted like regret and frozen spinach. The blender now lives on my counter as a monument to who I thought I could be.
My closet? That’s not a closet anymore. That’s a museum of alternate versions of me. There’s “gym me” (hasn’t shown up in months), “outdoorsy me” (owns boots that have never seen dirt), and “dress-up me” (waiting for an event that requires more than jeans and mild effort). Every hanger is basically a personality I purchased and then abandoned.
And don’t even get me started on online shopping. Late at night, it turns into a full-blown emotional support system. I’ll be sitting there like, “You know what would fix everything? A new pair of shoes.” Not therapy. Not sleep. Shoes. Because nothing says stability like tracking a package every two hours.
The best part is the justification. I become a lawyer in my own head. “This isn’t a want—it’s an investment.” In what? My ability to look slightly more put together while still forgetting why I walked into a room? Incredible return.
Then the packages arrive, and for a brief moment, I feel like I’ve won. I open the box like it’s a life achievement. But give it a week—two max—and that same item is just… there. Existing. Blending in with all the other “life-changing” purchases that quietly became background characters.
At some point, I looked around and realized my stuff had more structure than my life. My drawers were organized. My shelves were neat. Meanwhile, I’m eating cereal at 11 PM wondering how I ended up owning three jackets that all do the exact same thing.
And the weirdest part? The more I bought, the less anything meant. It’s like I diluted my own excitement. Nothing felt special because everything was trying to be.
Now I catch myself sometimes. Not always—I’m not about to pretend I’ve transcended the urge. But every now and then, I’ll hover over that “buy now” button and think, “Am I buying this… or am I trying to become someone again?”
Sometimes I still click it. I’m only human.
But at least now I know the truth: no package has ever arrived carrying a better version of me inside.
Just more stuff… and occasionally, a really nice box.
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