So, I’m standing in the produce aisle, right? And I’m having this full-blown, Taylor Swift-level dramatic staredown with an avocado. Just one single avocado. It was perfectly ripe, a gorgeous shade of green, practically whispering sweet nothings to me about toast and a poached egg. The problem? This little green goddess of a fruit cost four dollars. Four. American. Dollars. And in that moment, staring at this overpriced piece of produce, I had a revelation that was so profound, so earth-shattering, it almost knocked me into the organic kale display: I am spectacularly, hilariously, apocalyptically broke.
And not just, like, “oops, I bought too many iced lattes this week” broke. I’m talking about that deep-in-your-bones, check-your-bank-account-with-one-eye-closed, minimum-wage-in-the-year-of-our-lord-2025 kind of broke. The kind of broke that makes a four-dollar avocado feel like a luxury item you should only be allowed to purchase after securing a small business loan.
So, if you’re here, reading this, I’m guessing you know the vibe. Welcome, bestie. You’ve stumbled into the chaotic corner of the internet where we laugh so we don’t cry and turn our financial anxieties into content. Buckle up. This is our official, unofficial, and highly un-certified guide to surviving on a paycheck that society has deemed “enough” but your landlord has deemed “a cute little joke.”
So, You’ve Decided to Play Life on Hard Mode?
First things first, let’s talk numbers. Because nothing says “fun and relatable blog post” like cold, hard, soul-crushing math, right? The federal minimum wage is a number so low it feels like a typo from 1998. And yeah, I know, some states have a higher minimum wage, and everyone on Twitter loves to scream “jUsT mOvE!” as if packing your entire life into three trash bags and teleporting across the country is a totally free and not-at-all-traumatizing experience.
But for so many of us, we’re stuck with a number that barely covers rent, let alone the audacity of wanting to, you know, eat. Every month is a masterclass in creative accounting. It’s a high-stakes game of Tetris where the blocks are your bills and the playing field is your depressingly small paycheck, and one wrong move means everything comes crashing down.
I remember my first “real” job budget. I was so optimistic. I bought a cute little notebook, some pastel highlighters… I was ready to be a Financially Responsible Adult™. I made columns for “Needs,” “Wants,” and “Savings.” It was adorable.
My bank account balance isn’t a number; it’s a cry for help written in Arial font, size 12. It’s less of a statement and more of a suggestion, like, ‘Hey, have you considered a life of crime? The hours are flexible!’
By the end of the first week, the “Wants” column was laughing in my face. By the end of the second week, the “Needs” column was starting to look suspiciously like a list of suggestions. And the “Savings” column? Honey, that column was a ghost town. It was a barren wasteland where financial dreams went to die. The most action it saw was when I accidentally spilled coffee on it. I literally had more money in my couch cushions than in my savings account. And that was a good month.
The reality is, these wages aren’t just low; they’re fundamentally disconnected from the actual cost of living. It’s not about being bad with money. It’s about being given a plastic spork to fight in a sword battle. If you want to see something truly terrifying (more terrifying than the season finale of that Netflix show, I promise), check out the MIT Living Wage Calculator. It breaks down what a person actually needs to earn to cover basic necessities in their area. Spoilers: it’s almost never the minimum wage. It’s a sobering reminder that the system isn’t just broken; it’s a full-on dumpster fire.
The Art of the Side Hustle (Without Losing Your Actual Soul)
Obviously, when your main income is a joke, the punchline is that you need a second job. Or a third. Or you start looking at your hobbies and wondering, “Can I monetize my crippling anxiety?” This is the era of the side hustle, where we’re all supposed to be girl-bossing our way to financial freedom by selling homemade candles or drop-shipping things from a warehouse in a country we can’t pronounce.
And girls, let me tell you, I have tried it all.
There was my short-lived career as a freelance writer for content mills, where I was paid approximately three cents per word to write articles like “Ten Fun Facts About Concrete.” (Fun fact #1: It’s more interesting than writing about it for pennies). Then there was the dog-walking phase, which was great until I realized I was spending more on poop bags and treats than I was actually earning. A net loss. But with cute dogs, so… a win? I don’t know.
My personal magnum opus of failure, however, was my Etsy shop. This was peak pandemic, okay? Everyone was making resin coasters with little flecks of gold in them. It looked so easy on TikTok. Just mix, pour, and become a millionaire. IYKYK. So I invested what little money I had into a starter kit. My apartment smelled like a chemical plant for a month. I ended up with a collection of lumpy, permanently sticky coasters that looked less “boho chic” and more “horrifying science experiment.” And I think I super-glued my thumb to my phone at one point. I sold exactly one coaster. To my mom. And she still overpaid.
We’re sold this dream of ‘Be Your Own Boss!’ but for most of us, it’s more like ‘Be Your Own Boss, HR Department, Janitor, and Disappointed Investor.’ It’s less about passion and more about pure, unadulterated panic.
The gig economy is a trap dressed up in a cute, minimalist Instagram aesthetic. It promises flexibility but delivers instability. It promises freedom but demands your every waking hour. You’re constantly chasing the next gig, the next five-star review, the next paycheck that will hopefully, maybe, cover your electric bill this month. And it is exhausting. According to the Economic Policy Institute, minimum wage workers are older and more educated than ever, which means even people with degrees are juggling these gigs. It’s a systemic issue, not a personal failing. So if your side hustle isn’t making you a millionaire, please, please don’t beat yourself up. You’re trying to survive in a system that’s actively trying to drown you. Just treading water is a massive achievement.
Total failure.
The Hunger Games: Grocery Store Edition
Let’s go back to the avocado, shall we? Because food is a whole other battlefield. Navigating a grocery store on a tight budget is a specific kind of psychological warfare. You walk in with a list, a calculator, and a prayer. Every item is a negotiation.
“Okay, I want the name-brand peanut butter because it tastes like childhood and happiness… but the store brand is two dollars cheaper and tastes vaguely of cardboard and sadness. Cardboard it is.”
You become a master of unit prices. You can spot a 2-for-1 deal from three aisles away. You know exactly which day of the week the “manager’s special” stickers go on the meat that’s about to expire. (It’s a fun little game of chicken with food poisoning, isn’t it?) You start to view things like fresh berries or a decent cut of cheese as extravagant luxuries reserved for royalty and Instagram influencers.
My greatest love story is with the clearance section of the grocery store. It’s a magical place filled with dented cans and dreams. Will this slightly squashed box of cereal bring me joy? For 70% off, you bet your sweet assets it will.
I’ve had entire phases of my life defined by a single cheap food. There was the Ramen Noodle Era of my early twenties, where I got so creative I probably could have won a Michelin star for my instant soup concoctions. A little soy sauce, a rogue scallion from the windowsill garden I tried to start (it died), maybe a soft-boiled egg if I was feeling fancy. Then came the Lentil Soup Period, which was… nutritious. And brown. Very, very brown.
My Roman Empire is the time I found a coupon for my favorite cereal—the good stuff, not the generic “Toasted O’s” that taste like packing material. I strutted to that checkout line like I was on a red carpet. It was a small victory, but in the relentless grind of being broke, those small victories are everything. They’re the little sparks of joy that keep you from completely giving up and deciding to live exclusively on saltine crackers and water. And let’s be real, the rising food costs aren’t just in our heads. Organizations like the Economic Policy Institute, and the numbers show that getting enough to eat is a real struggle for millions. It’s not you, it’s the economy. Literally.
And this was beautiful.
Your Social Life (199?-2025, RIP)
Okay, this is the part that no one really talks about. Being broke isn’t just an economic state; it’s a social one. It’s an invisible wall that slowly but surely starts to cut you off from the world.
It starts with the little things. Your friends want to go out for brunch. You look at the menu online and realize the mimosas alone cost more than your lunch budget for three days. So you send the text: “So sorry, I can’t make it! Feeling a little under the weather.” Then it’s a concert. A weekend trip. A birthday dinner at that new place that doesn’t list prices on their menu (which is code for “if you have to ask, you can’t afford it”).
My excuses for not going out have become an art form. I’ve had migraines, sick cats, urgent laundry emergencies, and a sudden, inexplicable need to alphabetize my spice rack. I’m not just broke; I’m a creative genius of social avoidance.
The excuses get more elaborate, and the invitations get less frequent. It’s not that your friends are bad people. It’s just… a chasm starts to form. A vibe shift happens when your friends start making real, adult money. They talk about mortgages and 401(k)s and vacationing in Italy, and you’re just sitting there, smiling and nodding, while mentally calculating if you can afford to turn your heat on for more than an hour tonight.
It’s profoundly lonely. You feel like you’re being left behind. You feel a weird mix of shame and jealousy that tastes bitter and awful. You want to be happy for them, you really do, but a small, petty part of you just wants to scream, “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH A SINGLE AVOCADO COSTS?!”
It’s okay to feel that way. It’s okay to mourn the social life you can’t afford to have right now. It doesn’t make you a bad friend. It makes you a human being who is trying to navigate a situation that is, frankly, cringe and deeply unfair.
Okay, So It’s a Dumpster Fire. But It’s Our Dumpster Fire.
After all that doom and gloom, you’re probably thinking, “Great. So the answer is to just lie on the floor and accept my fate as a financially destitute hermit.” And some days, honestly? Yes. That is the vibe. But not every day.
Because here’s the secret, the one thing that has saved me time and time again: you learn to find the joy in the cracks. When you can’t afford to buy happiness, you get really, really good at finding it for free.
Your library card becomes your best friend. It’s not just books; it’s movies, audiobooks, internet access, a quiet place to sit that isn’t your own depressing apartment. You become a connoisseur of parks. You know which bench has the best sun in the afternoon and where the cutest dogs hang out. You learn that a homemade coffee, sipped slowly on your own front step, can feel more luxurious than a ten-dollar latte from a crowded café. You become resourceful in ways you never thought possible. You can fix a leaky faucet with a YouTube tutorial and a paperclip. You can throw a potluck dinner party that feels more intimate and fun than any stuffy restaurant.
And most importantly, you find your people. You find the other broke besties who just get it. The friend who will come over to watch a pirated movie and split a frozen pizza with you, no questions asked. The coworker you can exchange knowing glances with when the boss talks about the “great company culture” while you’re both wondering if your paychecks will clear. There’s a solidarity in the struggle. A dark humor that gets you through the worst of it.
Sometimes, I think being this broke has given me a superpower. It’s the power of appreciating the small things. A sunny day. A good song on the radio. A text from a friend. When you strip away all the stuff you can’t have, you’re left with what actually matters. And sometimes… that’s enough.
I’m still not sure if I’m doing any of this “right.” Part of me thinks I should be more responsible, more ambitious, less… chaotic. But another part of me thinks that just surviving this is a radical act of defiance. Every day that you get up, go to a job that underpays you, and still manage to find a reason to laugh—that’s a victory.
So, yeah. I put the avocado back. I walked out of that grocery store with a bag of rice, some beans, and my dignity (mostly intact). It wasn’t the lunch I wanted, but it was the lunch I could afford. And you know what? It was fine. I survived.
And you will too. I promise. We’re in this ridiculous, avocado-less boat together. What do you guys think? Am I just screaming into the void here, or does this feel a little too real? Let me know in the comments. We need to stick together.