I spent my entire childhood and teen years fantasizing about being rich, mostly because I wasn’t. I spent my 20s scratching and clawing my way into an industry that overpays absurdly. By the time I hit 35 and became a mom, making money mattered significantly less to me than leaving a legacy. It was, however, not so easy to shake the identity I had crafted in my head as an affluent, power-earner.
I am in the process of redefining what matters in my life and how I will help my family achieve our lofty financial goals (annual trips to Australia, retirement funds in excess of $2MM, paid-in-full mortgage, education fund) while not abandoning my marriage relationship or my ever-burgeoning mother role.
Mine is a journey of balancing a would-be hippy, liberal, rage-against-the-machine, bra-burning, why-do-people-suck, everyone-deserves-a-second-chance soul with my shrewd, been-there, burned-too-many-times, boot-strapping, don’t-ask-me-where-I-went-to-high-school pride. Somewhere in my thirty-something years, I hope I’ve learned a thing or two about how to be a responsible, evolved, liberated, fun, inspired, compassionate woman.
That’s my hope, anyway.
Someday, my net-worth won’t determine my self-worth. Today is just not that day. Tomorrow isn’t looking very good either.
“SugarMama” was a joke/goal label I fantisized about in my early 20s. (Don’t judge, I am a product of early rap and 80’s cheese. Big shoulderpads and white Reebok high-tops were part of my working girl fantasy. I have always wanted to make my own way, depend on myself, and be financially/socially successful.
My maiden name was “Schmidt.”
Let’s do this damn thing.