Dear Money

For most of my life, money felt like a stranger I couldn’t trust, something I needed deeply but didn’t feel worthy of. I grew up watching my parents stretch coins into miracles, watching my mother sacrifice and my father pray. As the firstborn daughter in a humble home, I carried silent vows: “I’ll change this.” “I’ll create more.” “I won’t let us stay here forever.”

But no one tells you that before you rise, you must reconcile.
With your past.
With your patterns.
And most of all, with money.

This poem is not just a letter. It’s a homecoming.
It’s me, speaking to money not as an enemy or escape plan,
but as a witness to my journey,
from survival mode to soft, sovereign abundance.

If you’ve ever struggled with financial shame, scarcity, or the belief that you’re “too late” or “too poor” to ever become wealthy, this is for you. May it remind you that money can be sacred, healing, and deeply loving when you finally believe you’re safe to receive it.

Dear Money,

I’m sorry for the way I used to look at you,
with shame burning behind my eyes,
with longing I tried to swallow,
with fists clenched in scarcity,
while pretending I didn’t need you
as much as I actually did.

I’m sorry for the nights I cried because you weren’t there,
for the way I blamed you for my pain,
when it wasn’t you,
but the systems that made me think you’d never love a girl like me.

I’m sorry for hating the people who had you
when I was young and they looked like freedom,
and we looked like prayer,
prayer at the bus stop,
prayer when school fees were due,
prayer in the form of stretched food
and quietly mended shoes.

I’m sorry for pretending I didn’t want you
just so I wouldn’t have to face
how deeply I did.

I’m sorry for the seasons I chased you,
ran myself into the ground for you,
sacrificed my joy,
my sleep,
my light,
and still felt like I was never enough for you to stay.

I was the firstborn daughter
of parents who gave me love instead of land,
wisdom instead of wealth,
and silence instead of answers when I asked,
“Why do other people live soft,
while we learn to break and bend?”

I didn’t meet you in childhood.
I met your absence.

I met you in the form of a cracked ceiling,
shared school uniforms,
and shopping done with a calculator clenched in my mother’s hand
like a weapon against disappointment.

I met you in whispered “next time”s
and borrowed dresses.
I met you in sacrifice,
the kind that hides in mothers’ smiles
and firstborn daughters’ tight chests.

And yet, you never stopped circling me.
I just couldn’t see it then,
that you weren’t punishing me.
You were calling me to become
the kind of woman who wouldn’t waste you.

So now,
let me start again.

Dear Money,

Thank you.

Thank you for being patient with me
as I unlearned the myths they taught me in struggle,
that you corrupt,
that you divide,
that wanting you was somehow wrong
for someone like me.

Thank you for letting me meet you again,
not in urgency,
but in intimacy.

Thank you for showing me
that you are not the villain,
you are the vessel.
You are energy, shaped by the hands that hold you.

And my hands,
once tired,
once trembling,
once ashamed,
are now open.

Thank you for being the reason I could buy my son a birthday cake
without asking anyone for help.
Thank you for the bus fares I now pay without flinching.
Thank you for the groceries that don’t need counting,
for the electricity that stays on,
for the feeling of walking into a store
and knowing, “I can.”

You feel different now.
You no longer arrive with fear.
You arrive like sunlight.
Like confirmation.
Like proof that I am no longer surviving,
I am rising.

Dear Money,

You taught me boundaries.
You taught me to say:
“No, I can’t pour from an empty wallet or soul.”
You taught me that I can give and still keep some for myself.

You taught me about value, not price.
That I am not valuable because I hustle,
but because I exist,
because I dare to ask,
because I finally decided I was worthy
of more than just making it.

You taught me generosity,
not from obligation,
but from overflow.

You taught me that wealth is not selfish
when it is rooted in healing,
in creating,
in legacy.

I used to think I needed to beg you to stay.
Now I know, I only need to be in integrity.
When I honor myself,
you honor me.

Dear Money,

You witnessed every chapter of me.

The little girl who learned to say “I’m okay”
when she wasn’t.
The teenager who promised she’d build a better life
even if she had to burn herself to light the way.
The woman who used to feel guilt
each time she spent on herself,
as if comfort was a crime
meant only for the lucky.

You saw me ration data,
split meals,
walk in shoes with worn-out soles,
just to keep a dream alive.

You saw me fold my ambition
into neat little packages of politeness
so I wouldn’t offend the world with how big I wanted to be.

You saw me cry in silence,
not because I lacked dreams,
but because I had too many and too little to fund them.

You saw me return to the soil of my becoming.
And you saw me grow,
into someone who doesn’t apologize
for wanting softness,
security,
and sovereign wealth.

Dear Money,

You now move through me with purpose.
You build homes, not just habits.
You nourish the future,
one paid bill, one investment, one “yes” at a time.

You move through me like freedom.
Like laughter echoing from my kitchen
as my son eats fruit I didn’t have to budget for.
Like dancing in a dress I bought
just because it made me feel like the main character.

You move through me like healing,
paying off old debts,
replacing broken beliefs,
rewriting the story I once lived.

And you move through me like faith,
the knowing that more is always coming,
that there is always enough,
that I don’t have to suffer to deserve you.

Dear Money,

I now understand:
You were never meant to be chased.
You were meant to be partnered with.

You are not my enemy.
You are my ally.
You are not my master.
You are my mirror.

You reflect how safe I feel to receive.
You reflect how deeply I trust myself.
You reflect my capacity to hold, to expand, to bloom.

And so now I meet you
with open palms and a grounded heart.
Not with desperation,
but devotion.

I light a candle when you come in.
I whisper gratitude when you go out.
I no longer fear your departure,
because I know who I am
even without you.

And that, ironically,
is why you keep returning.

Dear Money,

Here is what I vow:

To use you with care.
To spend you in alignment.
To grow you with joy.
To give you with purpose.
To circulate you as a force for good.

I vow to teach my son a new story,
where money is a tool, not a torment.
Where abundance is safe.
Where joy isn’t postponed until “one day.”
Where love and luxury can coexist.

I vow to be your steward,
not your slave.

Dear Money,

We made it.
We’re finally on the same page.
We’ve made peace.
And now,
we make history.

Let’s build the legacy.
Let’s travel the world.
Let’s hire the team.
Let’s buy the land.
Let’s dress like royalty
because we remember who we are.

Let’s create beauty from the inside out.
Let’s let the world see what it looks like
when a firstborn daughter no longer carries lack
but channels light.

Let’s rewrite the lineage.
Let’s overflow.

Let’s walk into every room
with wealth in our spirit,
dignity in our stride,
and softness in our soul.

Because we are no longer surviving each other.
We are in love now.

And this time,
we’re not afraid to stay.

With trust, reverence, and rising power,
Your Chosen One,

You made it to the end, and that means something.

Whether you cried, smiled, or saw yourself in these words, know this:
You are not behind.
You are not cursed.
And you are absolutely worthy of ease, expansion, and overflow.

Money is not the enemy, silence is.
Shame is.
And the belief that women like us are meant only to sacrifice, not to soar.

So today, write your own letter to money.
Speak kindly to the thing you were once afraid to love.
Dress like the wealthy woman you’re becoming.
And take one small step, even if it’s just lighting a candle or paying a bill with joy.

You’re not chasing money anymore.
You’re aligning with it.
You’re becoming the version of you who attracts wealth by simply being who she is.

And that, my love, is power.