What does it feel like to grow up wealthy
I live in one of the best neighbourhoods in Toronto, in a 9 million dollar house. I am typing this on a 2500 dollar computer. It costs my parents 50k to send me to school every year. My peers include the owners of airports, private jets and humongous yachts. My father owns a Bentley and Mercedes Benz. My mom has two BMW’s. If I so pleased, I could buy as many hype shoes and shirts to fit in with my classmates, but I never do. My parents don’t force me to do any work.
I am EXTREMELY grateful for all of this. But this has hurt me as well, as, I simply cannot have the drive and hunger for success that my father had, as an immigrant who’s sole goal is to make millions. Growing up wealthy, gives you a lack of purpose.
No millionaire’s son are self made millionaires.
My parents are constantly fighting and are in a messy divorce. I have been diagnosed with anxiety. I have no purpose. I am a shadow.
tl;dr Growing up really wealthy gives you a lack of purpose and drive, so it reduces chances of being PERSONALLY successful.
This was actually eye opening for me to pen my thoughts down. I need to find a purpose, as soon as I can.
I never realized how wealthy my family was until a few years ago.
See, my parents wanted to give me and my brother as normal a life as they could. They raised us as a middle class family: a house in the suburbs, mass on Sundays, clipping coupons to take on our weekly trip to the grocery store. Vacations usually consisted of visiting relatives, though we did go on two cruises, six or seven years apart. We hardly ever flew, instead preferring to drive sixteen hours to visit family in Texas, and when we did fly, it was in economy.
My dad’s family was comfortable; my mom was raised as a farmgirl in Idaho. They knew the importance of frugality and instilled those values in us. They’d praise us when we saved up our allowance money to buy something we really wanted, rather than going out and spending it right away. They had a strict budget for our Christmas and birthday presents—though if we wanted, we could request the budgets be combined so we got one big gift for Christmas and nothing for our birthday, or vice versa.
I felt bad asking them for extra money if I wanted to buy a new shirt or a new book. Even as a teenager, $10 felt like a lot to ask for. Our favorite restaurant was a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place where an entire platter of burritos would run you $7; ordering something more than $15 just seemed far too pricey to me and my brother, and we’d always ask our parents if it was okay to get something on the menu rather than assume (to which they always responded with a smile that yes, it was okay).
So when I turned eighteen and my parents asked me to come along with them to see how they did their taxes, I tagged along with them to their accountant’s office to see what was what. In hindsight, the fact they had their own accountant… really should have been my first clue.
It turned out my family is considered part of the 1%.
They didn’t spoil us rotten growing up. We never went hungry and usually got what we wanted for presents, though more expensive things would usually be turned down unless we wanted that to be our ‘one big present’ for the year. I remember one year in particular where my brother and I both combined our birthday and Christmas presents so we could get a Hogwarts Lego set for the two of us to share; it’s still one of our favorite presents and it’s still proudly assembled in the living room.
I’m grateful for the life they gave us, especially since the career I’ve chosen for myself won’t see me making very much money. It won’t be a huge shock to go from living in excess to whatever starting salary I’ll be making after graduation. Even now at uni, they gave me a monthly budget and it’s up to me how to manage that money for food, laundry, transportation, and entertainment. I’ve made the decision to walk rather than taking the Tube a few times because I wanted to eat out somewhere rather than cook for myself. I’ve figured out how to stretch a 55p bag of dried pasta to last me for a week.
I like to think my parents did a good job raising us and teaching us the value of money.