I was at a farmers market in Venice, about to buy this ridiculously expensive kombucha. I’d been brewing my own for years, could make a gallon for what this bottle cost. But I wanted it. And I could afford it.
My hand still hesitated. In my head: my dad’s voice from twenty years ago, saying money doesn’t grow on trees.
Research on scarcity mindset shows that financial stress doesn’t just affect bank accounts. It reshapes how we think about resources, security, and worth. The phrases lower middle class parents use around money aren’t meant to wound. They’re survival strategies passed down like family recipes.
But those strategies can stick around long after they stop serving us.
1. “We can’t afford that”
I heard this phrase so often as a kid that I stopped asking for things around age nine. Not because I understood budgets or economics. Because I’d learned that wanting things made my parents’ faces do this thing. This tired, slightly defeated look that made me feel like I’d done something wrong just by pointing at the toy aisle.
Studies show that parents experiencing financial scarcity become significantly more inattentive to other responsibilities, creating what researchers call a “scarcity trap.” When you’re managing limited resources, there’s not much bandwidth left for explaining the nuances of family finances to a kid.
So “we can’t afford that” becomes shorthand for a much bigger conversation. But what kids hear is: your wants are a problem. Desire equals burden.
Even now, when I can absolutely afford something, I still do this internal calculation about whether I deserve it.
2. “That’s not for people like us”
My parents never said this directly. But I learned it anyway. We’d walk past certain stores in the mall without even slowing down. My mom would comparison shop at three different grocery stores but never set foot in the fancy one with the cheese counter and the organic section.
You learn the invisible lines. Which restaurants are “for us” and which aren’t. Which experiences are realistic versus pipe dreams.
Fast forward twenty years. I’m making decent money writing, living in Venice Beach. I can afford the nice dinner or the weekend trip. But there’s still this voice that says: who are you kidding? That’s not for people like you.
The bank account changed. The internal geography didn’t.
3. “Money doesn’t grow on trees”
This was my dad’s go-to phrase. Every. Single. Time.
I get it. He was trying to teach me that money requires work. That resources are finite. That I needed to understand value.
All true. But what I actually internalized was: money is always scarce. Wanting anything beyond the basics is unreasonable. Financial security is one bad decision away from collapse.
The phrase was meant to build responsibility. What it built was anxiety.
I’m in my forties now. I’ve built a good life. But I still catch myself spiraling about whether a purchase is “worth it” in ways that have nothing to do with my actual finances. That scarcity thinking doesn’t just disappear because you’re not broke anymore.
4. “We work too hard for you to waste it”
This one tied every dollar to my parents’ exhaustion. I knew my dad worked long hours. I saw my mom tired from juggling two jobs. Money wasn’t just money. It was their time, their energy, their physical bodies converted into currency.
Research on class socialization shows how parents transmit financial stress across generations without meaning to. The weight of parental sacrifice becomes the kid’s emotional baggage.
The intent was to teach gratitude. What I learned was guilt. That my existence was expensive. That any money mistake wasn’t just careless, it was betrayal.
I spilled juice on a new shirt once when I was maybe ten. My mom didn’t yell. She just got quiet. That silence taught me more about the cost of things than any lecture could have.
5. “At least we’re not poor”
Lower middle class families exist in this weird space. Not poor enough to qualify for help. Not stable enough to feel secure.
This phrase was my parents’ way of creating perspective. Look down, not up. Be grateful for what you have.
But building gratitude by comparing yourself to people worse off is a terrible foundation. You learn to measure your life not by whether your needs are met, but by whether someone else has it worse.
I used this logic well into my thirties. Can’t complain about the job because at least I have one. Can’t talk about stress because other people have it harder.
Comparative suffering is a trap that keeps you from acknowledging legitimate problems. Because someone somewhere always has it worse.
6. “Rich people don’t care about people like us”
This wasn’t usually said out loud. But it was there in how my parents talked about the news. How they described their bosses. How they explained why certain doors weren’t open to us. And look, there was truth behind it. They’d been overlooked and underpaid. The anger was earned.
But when it becomes a blanket statement about everyone with money, it creates this worldview where wealth and morality are opposites. Where making more money means you’ve compromised something essential.
That made my own success weird to navigate. The better my writing career got, the more I felt like I was betraying something. Like I was becoming one of “them.”
It took a while to realize that making decent money didn’t mean I’d sold out. That economic mobility and values can coexist.
7. “I’m doing this so you have a better life”
My parents meant this with their whole hearts. They worked jobs they didn’t love, skipped things they wanted, made constant sacrifices so I could have opportunities they didn’t. But here’s the problem: How do you repay someone who gave up their comfort for you?
I carried that debt for years. Every achievement got measured against their sacrifice. Every mistake felt like proof I’d wasted what they’d given me. The pressure to succeed wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about justifying their investment.
Took me until my mid-thirties to realize the trap I was in. That their choice to prioritize my future didn’t mean I owed them my entire present.
“Better” is subjective anyway. Maybe a better life means having the freedom to make different choices than they did. Including choices they don’t understand.
Final thoughts
These phrases weren’t said with bad intentions. They were survival strategies from parents navigating financial stress while trying to raise kids with realistic expectations.
But language shapes us in ways that outlast the circumstances that created it. The money scripts we internalize as kids become the stories we tell ourselves about worth, security, and what we deserve.
Understanding where these messages came from doesn’t erase their impact. But it does create space to examine which ones still serve you and which ones are just old code running in the background.
Your parents did their best with what they had. Now you get to do your best with what you’ve learned.
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