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The first month my income crossed a number I had obsessed over for years, I didn’t celebrate.
I opened my banking app late at night.
Looked at the balance.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
I was waiting for something inside me to drop.
A shoulder to loosen.
A breath to deepen.
Some quiet signal that the hard part was over.
Nothing moved.
That confused me more than struggle ever did.
The rent was covered. Savings were real. For the first time, I wasn’t calculating the month in advance.
But my body didn’t know that.
It still felt like something could go wrong any minute.
The Moment the Number Changed
For years, that number had lived in my head like a finish line.
“If I reach this, things will calm down.”
It wasn’t luxury I imagined.
It was basic stability.
Bills paid without mental math.
Savings that didn’t vanish after one emergency.
Breathing space.
When I finally crossed it, I expected relief to arrive automatically.
Instead, a new thought entered quietly.
“This market is unstable.”
“Jobs aren’t permanent.”
“Income can vanish.”
The fear didn’t reduce.
It just changed shape.
Earlier, the anxiety was about not having enough.
Now it was about losing what I finally built.
The number improved.
The sense of fragility didn’t.
This is also why income can rise for years and still leave you feeling financially stuck.
I wasn’t trying to get rich.
I was trying to stop feeling one event away from collapse.
That feeling doesn’t disappear just because the balance increases.
What I Thought I Was Chasing
When money was tight, everything felt connected to it.
Stress.
Arguments at home.
Future plans postponed.
Even small pleasures felt irresponsible.
So it was easy to conclude that money was the root problem.
If income increased, life would stabilise.
If savings grew, tension would reduce.
If the number became solid, the fear would dissolve.
That belief carried me for years.
It made long hours feel meaningful.
It made sacrifice feel temporary.
I was dreaming about a steady month.
A month where nothing urgent happened.
Looking back, I realise something uncomfortable.
For a long time, I thought I was ambitious.
That I simply wanted to grow.
But when I look honestly at those years, growth wasn’t the dominant emotion.
Fear was.
Not dramatic fear. Not panic.
Just a constant background calculation.
What if income stops?
What if something breaks?
What if I have to ask for help again?
The number I was chasing wasn’t about wealth.
It was about silence.
Silence from those questions.
I thought earning more would make them disappear.
I didn’t realise I was trying to buy the feeling of being untouchable.
And money can increase control.
But it cannot erase the memory of being fragile.
What I Actually Wanted (But Didn’t Know How to Name)
Money gave me control.
I could handle emergencies.
I could plan months ahead.
I could absorb bad news without immediate panic.
Control feels like power.
But it is not safety.
I can handle problems now.
That doesn’t mean I stopped expecting them.
That’s the gap.
During unstable years, I trained myself to expect disruption.
I once read in The Psychology of Money that financial decisions are rarely about spreadsheets. They’re about what we’ve lived through. That line stayed with me because it explained why my reactions didn’t change just because my income did.
Delayed payments.
Sudden expenses.
Plans collapsing.
That expectation doesn’t retire when income improves.
It stays on duty.
So even when the account grows, the internal posture remains defensive.
Not because I want more.
Because I don’t trust permanence.
I thought a bigger number would remove the threat.
What it actually did was give me better tools to manage it.
That’s not the same as feeling safe.
The Strange Phase No One Talks About
There’s a phase that doesn’t get discussed.
You’re objectively doing better.
Income is steady.
Savings exist.
You’re not counting days to the next payment.
From the outside, nothing looks unstable anymore.
Inside, it still feels temporary.
You don’t spend freely.
You don’t relax fully.
You don’t say, “It’s fine now.”
You say, “Let’s see how long this lasts.”
That sentence lives quietly in the background.
The fear isn’t loud anymore.
It’s cautious.
You track the market more than before.
You think about layoffs even if your company is stable.
You calculate how many months you could survive if everything stops.
Earlier, the anxiety was about survival.
Now it’s about durability.
You’re not afraid of today.
You’re afraid of reversal.
And because reversal feels possible, relief feels irresponsible.
I’ve written about this in Why Playing Safe Feels Smart but Slowly Keeps You Stuck. What looks like discipline is often just fear trying to stay in control.
So you stay slightly alert.
Even when nothing is wrong.
The Difference Between Control and Relief
Money gave me options.
It did not give me ease.
I can survive longer now if something goes wrong.
That’s control.
But relief is something else.
I still calculate survival months.
I still imagine worst-case scenarios during good weeks.
I still prepare for impact.
That’s not relief.
And I haven’t earned that yet.
Not because I don’t make enough.
But because the part of me that lived through instability still believes collapse is normal.
I’m starting to see that the guard doesn’t lower after one milestone.
It lowers after nothing goes wrong for a while.
After enough quiet months.
Until then, the guard stays up.
Not dramatically.
Just slightly.
Because I wasn’t chasing wealth.
I was chasing the permission to stop bracing.
And that permission doesn’t come from a number.
It comes from trust.
And trust doesn’t grow at the same speed as income.