A Mantra For Those Who Feel Squeezed

I think I’m at least 80% accepting of the fact, finally, that I won’t be a wealthy man. We’re blessed, and affluent by most standards, but our base budget is certainly humbled by the fact that we have four kids.

And this tension—between feeling like we’re making it but still feeling stretched—also exists with our time.

We show up for our kids and help out our family, friends, and neighbors as much as we can. But we also always feel like we’re drowning—the laundry, dishes, and daily grind are never stable. Despite the fact that we’d admit we’re doing our best and doing a decent job, it never feels like enough.

And despite all this, I still feel so much selfish guilt.

I don’t serve anyone in need whom I don’t already know, in any meaningful way, though my faith and my own moral sensibility demand it. I have let down friends—all the time, lately—it takes me months to call someone back or set up lunch, catch up over drinks, or deliver a meal to help out friends who are new parents.

We are part of the squeezed middle—we’re not living month to month with our money or time—but we don’t have enough time or money to easily trade one for the other. We’re squeezed.

And I don’t mean this as a “middle class” issue, per se, because there are plenty of families wealthier and poorer than ours, both in time and money, who feel squeezed. From investment bankers to blue-collar workers, I know families across the spectrum who feel this same pressure.

The squeezed are a surprisingly large cohort who feel stuck because they can’t trade time for money or money for time.

Leaving a Penny

I think the only way out of this is to help each other—even when it feels like no more than a penny’s worth. Little things matter. I’ve seen it in my own life.

There are a few families on our soccer team that carpool to practice. Freeing up one night per family, per week makes a difference. When other families at our school keep an eye out for our kids and we keep an eye out for theirs, it makes a difference. When someone comes with their pickup truck to help move some furniture, it makes a difference.

All these little things are like those old cups at grocery stores that said, “Have a penny, leave a penny. Need a penny, take a penny.” Little things that show up where you’re squeezed matter a great deal.

And something that feels small to us—like just giving a penny—can feel like receiving a gold coin to someone else.

For example, me shoveling my older neighbors’ snow barely registers as 20 minutes of extra work for me, but it’s unbelievably helpful to them so they aren’t beholden to unreliable help when they need their driveway clear to go to a doctor’s appointment.

Similarly, it felt very small to her when a good friend and neighbor came over to watch our kids for 20 minutes when Griffin was born and Robyn was conveyed by ambulance from the living room to the hospital—but to us, it was worth more than a bag of gold.

When we leave and take pennies, it relieves the squeeze. These little pennies are hardly worth just one cent—they’re often worth their weight in gold. “One cent” can feel like salvation when you’re being crushed.

I feel squeezed every single day of my life.

If I could afford to throw more money at problems, I would. But most of my problems wouldn’t get that much better with more money—grocery delivery doesn’t save me a trip because it’s never right, and I’d never be willing to outsource going to my sons’ soccer games, even if we could afford it.

And I’m unwilling to detach either. I’d rather live with the guilt of not meeting my commitments to my friends and people in need, rather than pretending like it doesn’t matter. Because it does. I don’t want to be less squeezed just for me, I want to also be there to stick up for those who have no penny to give.

I don’t think changing laws can help us, in the immediate anyway. I don’t think AI will save us either. The financial windfall that will allow me to gain hours of my time back is never going to come. And I’m tired of waiting for a hero to save me. We are the only heroes we’ll ever get.

The only way this works is if we help each other.

It’s good enough for it to be in small ways. These small acts of support are the only real alchemy I’ve ever seen work. Because when we leave a penny, it’s not one cent we’re leaving—we’re leaving something for someone else that’s worth its weight in gold.

So if you’re feeling squeezed, we need to stick together. Remember this mantra: take a penny, leave a penny. We are all we’ve got, and we are enough to get through this.

When we are finally comfortable is when we need to dream bigger

We are in the waning days of Robyn’s third pregnancy. Our third son is so close to being here. As I write this on a Sunday, he’s due to meet us tomorrow. 

Strangely, I’ve awaited his arrival more anxiously than our previous two children, which I feel guilty about.

Looking back on when Robert was born, I suppose I was in a state of shock. I was grieving my father, still. And in addition to my struggle to grasp what it would mean to be a newly minted father, I was also working a demanding job with high stakes and high stress. And so when Robert came along, even though I wanted to devote myself fully to my new responsibilities, I was incapable of it. My head was two jumbled up.

And with Myles two years later, his arrival snuck up on me. I was 3 months into a new job and it was the middle of the Christmas season. We were planning my brother in law’s bachelor party. We already had one toddler who had just turned two. I was exhausted, physically, and mentally before Myles even arrived. I probably would’ve anticipated his arrival more, had my mental energy not been so depleted.

But this time it’s different. I have greater stability at work and have been sleeping, eating, and exercising like a responsible person instead of a young man holding onto his bachelor days. And the deep introspection brought on by the past two years of Covid-related anxiety, determination, and solitude have left me feeling an unexpected clarity about my life’s purpose.

What I feel guilty about is that I’ve had feelings of anxiety and longing for our third son’s arrival, an emotion I didn’t afford to Bo and Myles. For the first time, I feel that ache, desperate for or son to arrive. Why do I feel it this time, for the first time?

A few months ago, I wondered whether I had any dreams left. Life has been so good, even amidst the crisis of Covid-19. I met and married Robyn. We have a family. We have a home. We live comfortably and without fear of missing a meal. We are stable and healthy. We get to see our extended family, and learn through travel. Granted I don’t have expensive or far-reaching desires, but everything I’ve ever really wanted, I now have. Everything else good in my life was a bonus to be grateful for, I thought.

And yet, I’m not in a place of patience waiting for his due date. On the contrary, our third son has got my heart all flustered fluttering. He’s got me feeling unsatisfied again, which I thought I had gotten over. I thought I had gotten closer to the ever elusive mindset of joyful non attachment.

But it turns out, that’s absolutely false. I’m attached. I want him to get here. He needs to be here. Our family needs him to be complete. I have been awaiting him impatiently, asking Robyn about her contractions with sincere but anxious curiosity after every deep breath she takes.

Just 6 months ago, I was ready to call it and say that I didn’t really have any dreams left. But our unborn, unnamed, little boy has reminded me how dangerous it is to feel finished and past the phase in our life where we dream. He’s reminded me that we’re never done dreaming, nor should we ever be.

Because even if I am comfortable and happy, that’s not the same as being “done”. The big world around me, or even my little world under our roof is complete. There is more work to do. There is so much left to finish. We have so much left to dream.

Russia’s invasion of Ukraine was a jarring reminder of that this week.

I was just starting to think that everything was settling into place in the big world around us. With the waning of the Omicron variant, Covid-19 seemed to be in its last overture. Joblessness was starting to fall, wages and inflation starting to rise. Robyn and I have been growing steadily in our careers. Our children are healthy and growing into fine young men. The worst of winter, literally and figuratively, seemed to be over.

I thought that I could lay off the accelerator and coast a little, after the difficult season I thought we were coming out of. Things were going well. My garden was planted and the world was chilling the efff out, I thought, and now all I had to do was tend to my garden. I had 80% or more of my life’s dreams - I could focus on the remaining proportion leisurely. I could let it ride with the dreams I’ve already made real.

And then, Robyn’s due date crept closer. And I realized, the picture in our little world isn’t complete. There is more to plant in our garden. I want our son to get here, I thought. We have more dreams to realize. We’re not done yet, we have work to do in our own backyard. 

And with Russia invading Ukraine, it was a slap in the face reminding me there was a world outside our backyard that needed more and bigger dreams. 

And yes, not all of us need to flock to the realm of foreign politics. There is more dreaming and work to do in so many domains. In our neighborhood. For advancing literacy. For improving health. For creating art and music. For decarbonization. For restoring trust to our institutions. For ending gun violence. And yes, sadly, for preventing world wars.

This aching anxiety for our third son - just when I thought I could slow down on dreaming - has taught me something important. Even when we think we’ve achieved our dreams, there is so much left to dream for. When things are good and we are comfortable, is precisely when our world - whether our little world or the big world around us - needs us to keep dreaming the most.

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What am I doing with my surplus?

My feelings about "privilege" are complicated.

On the one hand, the data is clear that certain factors that we are born into - like race, gender, sexual orientation, zip code, etc. - are predictive of how healthy, wealthy, and at peace we become.

On the other hand, those with "privilege" still have to avoid screwing up the privilege they have to become healthy, wealthy, and at peace. And that's not trivial, either.

On the other hand, privilege is used as leverage to exploit those with less money and power. That exploitation is wrong.

On the other hand, I can't and don't want to live in a perpetual state of guilt, apology, doubt, and shame about any "privilege" I have. I didn't choose to be born into privilege or non-privilege, just like everybody else.

So what do I do with these complicated feelings?

It seems just as wrong to skewer people with privilege as it is to suggest privilege is a conspiracy. And having some sort of atonement about privilege through acknowledgement or "checking" privilege seems okay, I guess. But I honestly don't know the material, sustained effects it has on our culture. It doesn't seem like enough to simply become aware of privilege.

I've been thinking about this idea of "privilege" lately because of Thanksgiving. I feel extremely lucky to have steady work, work that doesn't require leaving my house, and health insurance. I have a family that I love and loves me back. I have friends and neighbors that I love, and love me back. When people have asked me, "what are you grateful for this Thanksgiving?" these are the things I've talked about.

Talking with and listening to my brother-in-law on Thanksgiving, inspired a different path.

It was helpful to replace the world privilege with "surplus". I have a lot of surplus. I was born into a life of surplus. There are other people who were also born into a life of surplus.

Nobody chooses what surplus they were born into.

But everybody chooses what they do with the surplus they have.

What am I doing with my surplus?

Am I trying to get more? Am I trying to shame others because they have more surplus? Am I trying to reallocate surplus after the fact? Am I trying to convince myself that I deserve the surplus I have? Am I using my surplus to enrich my own life and that of my friends and family with ostentatious luxuries? Am I wasting my surplus? Am I trying to acknowledge and atone for my surplus? Am I trying to stockplie it? Am I trying to bequeath it?

Or am I trying to use the surplus I have to enrich the lives of others?

I honestly don't know if this is the best answer on what to do with these complicated feelings about privilege. And maybe there doesn't have to be one "answer" in the first place.

But the best I can come up with is not worrying so much about privilege itself, and who has more of it than me. To me, it makes more sense to worry about whether I am enriching the lives of others.

"To who much is given, much is expected" is an old idea, but it seems like an enduring and worthwhile principle to apply to this befuddling idea of privilege.