Let’s talk about money.
Ugh, I know. The worst dinner conversation topic, right? But if you’re anything like me, money isn’t just some abstract concept—it’s that little voice in your head at 3 a.m. whispering, “Did you pay the electric bill? What if something breaks? How much is in savings, anyway?” For me, money is a constant background hum of worry. It’s like a leaky faucet in the back of my mind that I can’t quite shut off.
Whenever I try to bring up our budget with my husband, he shuts down faster than a New York bodega at 2 a.m. after the health inspector shows up. His signature line? “Don’t worry about it. Everything will work out.” Now, I get that he’s trying to calm me down, but honestly? That line does the opposite of calm me down. Because deep down, I feel like the only reason we make it through the month is because I worry. I worry enough for both of us.
And honestly? In our case, someone really does have to. We’re a one-income household. My husband lives with a chronic illness and disability that prevent him from working. I’m grateful every day that I have a good job that pays the bills. But let’s be real: living on one income in New York stretches that paycheck thinner than I ever thought possible. It’s like trying to squeeze a king-sized mattress into a studio apartment. Things are tight.
So when I hear, “Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine,” I want to scream: HOW? Magic? A surprise inheritance? But before I grab a bullhorn and a spreadsheet, I remind myself: money means different things to both of us. And it turns out, our childhoods wrote two very different stories about money.
I grew up in a blue-collar family where money was always a “we’ll figure it out somehow” situation. My parents worked multiple jobs, coming home late and exhausted. We had what we needed, but we knew things were tight. There were no secrets about it. We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rolling in it either. There’s something about watching your parents grind endlessly that sticks with you. For me, money equals security. If you don’t plan, things fall apart. Worrying? That’s how you stay afloat.
Now, my husband’s story? A totally different flavor. His family looked more like the “traditional” model—dad worked long hours, mom stayed home. But his dad was hardly around, so he tried to make up for it by spoiling the kids. New toys, latest gadgets, all the things. It wasn’t that they were rich; it’s just that his dad believed that love could be bought—probably because his own dad didn’t give him much of either. For my husband, money just showed up when it was needed. And honestly? That belief stuck.
Even now, when bills pile up, he’s confident everything will somehow work out. Part of that confidence? His family’s safety net. They’ve stepped in before when we were in a pinch. And don’t get me wrong—I’m beyond grateful. But that help won’t last forever. At some point, it’s going to be just us. And that’s where things get tricky.
It’s funny—well, not ha-ha funny—how fast a money conversation can turn into a full-blown argument. When you mix different money mindsets, one-income stress, and New York rent? Yikes. You’ve got the perfect recipe for tension. But here’s what we’re learning: the conversation has to happen. The stress doesn’t just disappear because one person refuses to look at the numbers. And honestly, I don’t want to carry this weight alone.
When I used to open money talks with cold, hard facts like, “We overspent on groceries,” or “The electric bill is higher again,” my husband would immediately shut down. I realized that starting with numbers made him defensive. He heard it as, “You’re not providing,” or worse, “You’re the problem.” Now, I start with how I feel: “I get anxious when I don’t know if we’re on track,” or “I just want to feel like we’ve got a plan for the future.” Starting with emotions keeps the conversation from feeling like a courtroom interrogation. It makes it feel like a team huddle instead.
I’ve also learned that timing is everything. I have absolutely tried to talk about money at the worst times—like right after dinner when we’re both exhausted or when a surprise bill hits our inbox. Spoiler alert: It never goes well. Now, I wait for calm moments. Sometimes, we’ll chat over coffee on a lazy Sunday. Or we’ll take a walk—something about moving makes tough conversations easier. Basically, I look for those times when it’s us against the problem, not me against him.
Another thing that’s helped is flipping the script from sacrifices to dreams. Every time I brought up budgeting, my husband heard one thing: “We can’t have nice things.” So I started talking about what we could do—if we stuck to a plan. “Wouldn’t it be amazing to take a real vacation next year?” or “How cool would it be to not stress about the holidays for once?” Suddenly, budgeting wasn’t about cutting back. It was about making room for things we both wanted.
Understanding our different money stories was also a game-changer. For a long time, I thought my husband was just being careless. But when I really thought about it, I realized his relationship with money made total sense. Money did always show up for him when he needed it. His parents bailed him out because that’s how they showed love. He never had to worry. Me? I didn’t have that luxury. Worrying felt like survival. Once I saw that his optimism wasn’t laziness—and he understood that my worry wasn’t criticism—we stopped arguing at each other. We started talking with each other.
If you’re a one-income household like us, you know there’s no wiggle room for big mistakes. But big plans? They can feel way too overwhelming. So we started small. Tiny goals like saving $50 a week, checking the budget together once a month, or picking one expense to trim—just one. Small wins build trust. They remind both of us that we can handle this together, even when money feels tight.
We also stopped treating budget talks like major events—long, stressful, sit-down discussions that left us both miserable. Now? We keep it casual. A quick chat over dinner: “Hey, any big expenses coming up this month?” Or a simple check-in while we’re out running errands. Low-key, low-pressure. And you know what? It actually works.
Look, it’s easy to get resentful when you’re the one stressing over the bills. But I remind myself: my husband would give anything to be able to work. His chronic illness isn’t his fault. And he reminds me that I don’t have to carry this alone—even if the paycheck says otherwise. We’re a team. We just had to figure out how to be one when it comes to money.
Money talks are hard. They dig up old fears, family baggage, and insecurities. For us, it’s even trickier—one income, expensive city, chronic illness, different money stories. But here’s what I keep coming back to: My husband and I are building a life together. Not my life or his life—our life. And that means sharing the good stuff and the stressful stuff.
So if you’re in a relationship where one of you worries and the other avoids? You’re not alone. I see you. I am you. The goal isn’t to erase the worry. It’s to stop worrying alone.
Money isn’t just dollars and cents. It’s dreams. It’s security. It’s freedom. And when you’re sharing a life with someone? Those things belong to both of you.
Talk about the hard stuff. Laugh when you can. Cry when you need to. And keep showing up—two hearts, one wallet.
Does this sound like your story too? Let’s chat. How do you and your partner make money talks work? Drop your thoughts—I’d love to hear how you’re figuring it out.