No. 21 – Divorcing Capitalism

Let’s talk about money. Not the practical kind — the emotional kind. The stories we tell ourselves about it, the power we give it, the shame we carry around it. I was sitting with mine recently, writing without a filter, when this came out:

“Dear money, I give you way too much power over me. I see you as the key to my prison, the door to a world that I cannot fully enter. Without you I feel like I am closed in a tiny space. I would like to go out, have fun, travel, go to retreats, pick up fancy hobbies, but I don’t. Because you don’t allow me to. You shut the door right in my face and tell me to stay put. An unequal power play, a very unhealthy relationship, if you ask me.”

And to be honest — I was shocked by my own words. This is a very unhealthy relationship. And I am taking on a submissive, pleading, dependent role in it. Giving money all the power. Doing all the begging.

But as I sat with this, something shifted. Because money, I realised, is not the one holding the key. Money is the key. Capitalism is the one who decides who gets to hold it.

And like all abusive relationships, it didn’t start with oppression. It started with grooming. Long before I had a rent to pay or a business to run, the story was already being written into me. The toys that taught me to want more. The ads that showed me a life just out of reach. The subtle, persistent message that the right things — the right clothes, the right home, the right experiences — would make my life fundamentally better. I was shaped before I could consent to being shaped.

I felt used. Drained. Treated unfairly by someone with way more power than I would ever have. One side: a global system with billion-dollar machinery, centuries of conditioning, and an algorithm that knows my desires better than I do. The other side: me. A person with needs, fears, a rent to pay, and a deeply human longing to feel like enough. And as it is in every unhealthy relationship, I made his messages into my reality. Because yes — obviously, capitalism is a man.

A breakup was needed. Not an “I never want to see you again” kind of breakup — because I live in this system, I work within it, I am not pretending otherwise. But a breakup from the story. The one that has been running the show.

And yes, I am part of this system — fully, willingly, without apology. I am not about to move into a hut in the woods and barter vegetables. I love my work. I sell programmes. I earn money. What I am leaving is not the practical reality. It is the story — the one that had me begging at a locked door, convinced that behind it lay happiness. It didn’t. It never did.

But I need to break free on an energetic level. I need my mind to get out of this mindfuck. So what are the messages I have been fed?

“Your parents didn’t grow up with me whispering in their ear the way I whisper in yours. They had less — and somehow wanted less. But you? You grew up in the gap between what was promised and what is possible. You were told you could have everything. You were shown everything — on every screen, in every feed, in every beautifully lit image of a life that looks nothing like Monday morning. The yoga retreat. The capsule wardrobe. The kitchen that doubles as a state of mind. I gave you the longing first — and then the bill. Get up. Work. Pay. And keep wanting. The moment you feel like enough is the moment I lose you. And I am very good at not losing people like you.”

And when I dared to question it — when I felt the exhaustion, the gap between the promise and the reality — the response was instant: “This is just life, darling. Everyone feels this way. The problem is you. Your mindset. Your blocks. Your vibration. Work on yourself — and then work harder.” Gaslighting, dressed up as self-development.

This takes up a lot — time, energy, mental capacity. Before I even get to spend money I am spent, exhausted. Not by the work necessarily, but by the worrying, the repetition, the mental stress. And capitalism keeps me that way deliberately — too tired, too anxious, too depleted to reach for anything that doesn’t come with a price tag.

And the promise? It never delivers. Either I am forever chasing, or disappointed by the catch. Yes, there is a world out there — real, tangible, visible. A golden world of picture-perfect experiences. Long tables at dinner parties, adventure days with the kids, yoga holidays with friends, everything looking sweet as candy floss, everything promising that this — this — will be the thing that finally fills the gap. And for a moment, it does. The sugar rush is real. But it sits in me wrong, this kind of sweetness. It leaves a slight nausea in its wake, a vague sense of having been promised something that wasn’t quite delivered. Because I always take myself with me. The gap comes too.

And yet I stayed. Because that is what trauma bonding does — it keeps you attached to the very thing that is draining you, through just enough sweetness to make leaving feel impossible. Occasional wins. Occasional rushes. Occasional moments where the promise almost delivers. Intermittent reinforcement. The oldest trick in the book.

And as I take myself wherever I go, I come to realise that I hold a different set of keys — keys that belong to me and me alone. I might be denied access to candy land for lack of funds. But I have so many other keys. Keys to worlds that exist just the same — healthy worlds, quiet worlds, worlds that were always there, always open, always free.

I carry the key of love — not the kind that arrives and leaves, but the kind that is always there, running quietly beneath everything like a current through the veins of my life.

I carry the key of friendship — the ones that began before either of us had anything, and will remain long after everything else has changed.

I carry the key of nature — always available, always generous, asking nothing.

I carry the key of creativity — the capacity to make something from nothing, to find meaning in the act of making itself. Mine and mine alone.

I carry the key of stillness — that place within that is always there, always quiet, always whole — where I am fully present, fully here, fully enough. The one you cannot enter, capitalism, no matter how loud you get.

I carry the key of becoming — not what I have, but who I am turning into. That journey belongs to no one but me.

And here is your trick, capitalism — the one I am most ashamed to have fallen for. You don’t sell joy. You sell the packaging. The holiday that promises adventure, the dinner that promises connection, the retreat that promises peace. You take what is already mine — and charge me for the wrapper. Not anymore.

And with that realisation, something lifted. Because you cannot lock me out of what was never yours to guard. So I turn to you now — not with pleading, not with begging — but with something you have never heard from me before. Clarity.

And here it is — the speech I have been rehearsing for years.

Dear capitalism,

For a long time you had me imprisoned in your story — the one that reads financial struggle as personal failure. As if the size of my bank account were a measure of my worth, my discipline, my very character.

I even bought into the most insidious story of all — that money is a sign of spiritual growth. That my bank balance was a report card on my soul. Let me be crystal clear: it is not. I know people of profound depth and very little money. I know people of great wealth and complete emptiness. Spiritual growth looks nothing like your spreadsheets. You cannot audit a soul.

But you are full of empty promises. You make me work and beg and suffer, only to always say: just a little bit more. Next time, I promise. But I have had enough of your promises.

I am not saying I reject the key to your world. I am saying it has no effect on my inner happiness. Because I carry other, far more important keys.

You cannot put a number on my becoming. On my stillness. On love — not as a feeling, but as a frequency, a current, the thing that is there before thought and after words. That currency is not yours to print.

And I will be honest — there were real things between us. Security, comfort, the ability to provide for my children, the freedom that comes with financial ease. I am not pretending those things don’t matter. They do. But they were never worth what you charged me for them.

I am not walking away in bitterness. I am walking away with clarity. Let’s deconstruct the story between us — the one built on fear and longing and never enough — and see what remains when it is gone. My guess is something simpler. A working relationship between two adults. You provide tools. I use them. No drama. No dependency. No story.

Three questions:

• What story has capitalism been telling you — and how long have you been believing it?
• Which keys have you forgotten you are carrying?
• What would it feel like to stop needing the system — and simply, freely, use it?