They Myth of the Budget

For a long time, I’ve felt like a cog in a wheel.

As though who I am matters very little. As though what I offer isn’t particularly valuable. As though I am simply one more person responsible for keeping my small patch of society operating and running.

I’ve pushed against that feeling for years.

I’ve argued internally for my value and worth. Reminded myself of the students I’ve taught, the people I’ve loved, the lives I’ve touched. I’ve pointed to the evidence that I matter.

But recently, a different realization settled over me.

Perhaps the problem was never my value.

Perhaps the problem is that many of us are living inside systems that increasingly measure human beings by what they produce rather than who they are.

I can only speak from my own lived experience in the United States, but it often feels as though our society is organized around maintaining economic growth, supporting corporations, and maximizing efficiency and not around supporting human flourishing.

That doesn’t mean individuals don’t matter.

It means that when the needs of people conflict with the needs of institutions, institutions increasingly seem to win.

It shows up in housing costs that have risen far faster than wages. It shows up in healthcare systems that force people to weigh the cost of treatment against the cost of rent. It shows up in education that promises opportunity while often delivering decades of debt.

We see it in the growing number of people working harder than ever before while feeling less secure than they did a decade ago.

And perhaps most importantly, we feel it.

We feel it every time we hesitate before going to the doctor because of the bill, every time we put groceries on a credit card, and every time we postpone a home repair, a dental procedure, or a dream because the numbers simply don’t work.

For generations, people were told that if they worked hard, lived responsibly, and made good choices, they would eventually find stability.

Yet many people are doing exactly that and still struggling.

I find myself thinking about this often when I look back at the beginning of my teaching career. When I started teaching twenty-two years ago, I expected that life would become progressively easier as my career advanced. I didn’t expect extravagance or luxury as a teacher, but stability.

That seemed a reasonable and fair assumption. After all, experience, years of service, and expertise are all supposed to matter. And, in some ways, they do. I am a better teacher than I was twenty-two years ago. I’ve spent decades refining my craft, supporting students, developing curriculum, and navigating the countless demands of public education.

Yet, when I look at my day-to-day financial reality, I am struck by how familiar it feels.

I find myself carefully calculating my expenses, weighing purchasing against upcoming bills, thinking about housing and healthcare and whether there is enough left over at the end of the month to create meaningful financial security.

The details have changed, but the feeling has not. This realization has been difficult and frustrating to sit with. Not because I expected to be wealthy, that’s not something you think is feasible as a teacher, but I did expect progress.

This is a truth most of us are facing.

The average worker is producing more than previous generations ever did. Technology has increased productivity. Efficiency has increased. Output has increased.

Yet for many families, the rewards of that increased productivity seem increasingly out of reach.

Wages rise, but housing rises faster.
Wages rise, but healthcare rises faster.
Wages rise, but education rises faster.

The gap between what people earn and what it costs to participate in modern life seems to grow wider each year.

As that gap widens, debt fills the space.

We often talk about debt as though it is a moral failing. As though people accumulated it because they wanted too much, bought too many lattes, and failed to budget.

And certainly, there are people who make poor financial decisions.

But that explanation feels incomplete.

Much of the debt people carry isn’t luxury spending.

Most debt is money spent on housing, transportation, medical expenses, and education.

It’s the cost of existing inside a society where necessities continue to outpace wages.

The idea used to be that people would have savings for emergencies. For many Americans, the credit card has become the emergency fund.

The car breaks down, or the roof leaks, or a child gets sick.

An unexpected expense appears.

And because there is no savings cushion, debt absorbs the impact.

And this isn’t because people are irresponsible, it’s because they are trying to survive. The result is a population that is increasingly dependent on systems it cannot afford to challenge.

One of my closest friends is experiencing this reality right now.

Her company has laid off coworkers and redistributed those responsibilities among the employees who remain.

The workload grows, expectations increase, pressure intensifies, but the compensation remains unchanged.

The message isn’t, “You are doing the work of multiple people and deserve additional support.”

The message is, “Be grateful you still have a job.”

And so she works harder, not because she wants to, but because she feels that she has no choice in the matter.

I suspect many people recognize this feeling, because freedom is not simply the ability to make choices, it is having enough security to say no.

Freedom is not simply the ability to make choices, it is having enough security to say no.

No to the exploitation, unreasonable demands, and to systems that ask more than they are willing to give.

But what happens when saying no risks your healthcare? Your housing? Your ability to feed your family? What happens when survival itself depends upon compliance?

The loss of power rarely happens all at once.

It happens gradually, through a thousand small compromises.

A little more debt. A little less security. A little more dependence on institutions that determine whether we have healthcare, housing, or enough income to meet our basic needs.

Over time, survival begins to take precedence over everything else.

People stop asking what they want and start asking what they can afford.

They stop imagining alternatives and focus instead on making it through another month.

And an exhausted population has little energy left to organize, advocate, or demand change.

Which raises another question. What happens when people do resist? What happens when citizens protest, organize, and challenge institutions they believe are causing harm?

Recent protest-related prosecutions have raised concerns among legal scholars, civil liberties advocates, and activists about the precedents being established. In one widely discussed federal case, individuals who did not personally commit acts of violence nevertheless received decades-long prison sentences under material support and conspiracy theories of liability. Supporters argue these prosecutions are necessary for public safety. Critics argue they dramatically expand the scope of criminal responsibility and may have a chilling effect on future dissent.

The legal details will continue to be debated.

But the larger question remains:

What happens to a society when the perceived cost of resistance becomes increasingly high?

Not because everyone who protests is right, or deserves support. But because healthy societies depend upon the ability of citizens to question power without fear.

The freedom to disagree, to organize, and to say, “Something about this is not working.”

These freedoms matter.

Because every meaningful improvement in society began with someone refusing to accept the status quo.

A worker demanding fair treatment, a woman demanding equal rights, a citizen demanding representation, or a community demanding justice.

Progress has always depended upon people being willing to challenge existing systems.

And yet, many people today feel increasingly powerless to do so.

Not because they lack conviction, but because they lack capacity. They are tired, financially stretched, and emotionally depleted.

People are just trying to survive.

That is the realization that has stayed with me.

Judging by the conversations I have with friends, colleagues, and strangers, I don’t think this feeling is unique to me.

It isn’t because people are weak.

It isn’t because people have stopped caring.

They haven’t.

I see how hard so many people are working simply to stay afloat.

I see it in my students’ families.

I see it in my friends.

I see it in my colleagues.

And if I’m honest, I see it in myself.

Twenty-two years into a career I love, I expected to feel further from the edge than I do. I expected to feel a little more certain that the effort was building toward something.

The greatest threat to freedom is not always force.

Sometimes it is exhaustion.

Sometimes it is debt.

Sometimes it is the erosion of the resources necessary to imagine alternatives.

I don’t believe human beings were meant merely to generate profit, increase productivity, and consume.

I believe we were meant to create, to connect, to rest, to love, and to contribute our unique gifts to the communities around us.

Human beings are not machines.

We are not units of production.

We are not quarterly earnings reports.

We are people.

A society should not be measured solely by the wealth it creates.

It should also be measured by the dignity it protects.

That is why this conversation matters.

Because beneath all of the discussions about economics, productivity, policy, and politics lies a much simpler question:

What kind of life are we trying to create?

Are we trying to create one where people spend their lives exhausted in service to systems?

Or one where systems exist in service to people?

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ♥