Author: The Fillennial

Learning to say no has shaped my income and net worth more than almost any yes. But before I learned that lesson, I had to humiliate myself in front of a mayor.

I woke up feeling like my skull was being used as a drum kit. I’d gone out the night before, stayed too long, and drank a little too much. All in all, not an unusual situation when you’re knee deep into Dutch student life.

There was, however, only one problem: in a few hours, I’d be part of a strategic meeting with the mayor of the city and several aldermen as a member of our faculty board. Afterwards, I had to give them a tour through the faculty building, followed by a presentation on student life there. High-profile guests and high reputational stakes, clearly the kind of day where you show up well-prepared.

I, on the other hand, had clearly underestimated the situation and overestimated myself. And the result? Me throwing up in the bathroom twenty minutes before the delegation arrived.

I swallowed painkillers, splashed water on my face, and somehow made it to the meeting room. The meeting itself was awful: my sentences came out jumbled, I was sweating through my shirt, and at one point had to let one of the other board members, a worldwide well-respected professor, take over to throw up again in another bathroom

The tour and presentation were just as bad, if not worse. The faculty staff looked mortified, while my fellow board members tried to cover for me. My friends thought it was as equally legendary as it was stupid, and congratulated me afterwards for pulling such an epic stunt. And I? I just wanted to do one thing: disappear and forget the day ever happened.

I was twenty years old and had just landed a board position managing the student portfolio across my entire university faculty: being part of the university’s executive circuit, shaping policy, real responsibilities, and a paycheck that was a small goldmine for a student. It was also an opportunity to learn from highly successful professionals and get experiences that could shape my entire career, and I’d nearly messed it all up because I couldn’t say no to a simple night out.

That morning broke something in me. Not necessarily my confidence, but the illusion that I could keep saying yes to everything without consequence.

Why I Couldn’t Say No

Before that day, I was essentially the kind of person that would always say 'As you wish' to be loved by others, even if it came at the cost of himself. Not because I loved being busy, but because I hated disappointing people and actively tried to avoid conflict at all costs.

So it was yes to the extra project, yes to the party, yes to “just one more” drink. Every yes seemed to keep someone happy, and keeping people happy kept the peace. But the cost was invisible until it suddenly wasn’t anymore.

The board role demanded roughly thirty hours a week, which came on top of classes, exams, and a social life I refused to let go of. I was stretching in every direction, which meant something was going to tear eventually. I just didn’t expect it to happen in front of a mayor.

Learning to Refuse

After that gruesome morning, I was forced to ask myself a different question. Instead of what I could add or take on, I asked what had to go if I wanted to graduate on time, do the job well, keep the income, and never humiliate myself like that again.

The list essentially wrote itself, but it wasn’t necessarily one that I liked: No more drinking before important days on the job, no more last-minute parties before important study deadlines, and no more projects that couldn’t actually be delivered without them impacting the commitments I’d already made.

For my entire two-year term, I had to say no on many occasions to protect myself and keep delivering on my commitments and responsibilities. I left parties early, skipped trips, and told friends I couldn’t make it when I knew I required a good night sleep more than another night out. It was awkward and lonelier at times than I could’ve imagined, but the chaos in my life gradually started to settle.

I graduated on time and, even more importantly, I learned things from that board role that shaped everything that followed. Working alongside professors and executives, I absorbed how they thought about decisions, priorities, and trade-offs. I built relationships and experiences that would later help me negotiate better salaries, and I developed a mindset around focus and delivery that has already helped me a long way into my still short professional career.

None of it happened because I said yes more, quite the opposite actually. It happened because I finally understood where to say no.

The Deadline That Didn’t Add Up

Years later those lessons around saying no showed up again in a meeting room at work, completely unexpected.

We were weeks away from one of the most important milestones of the year: the operational decommissioning of an old and critical IT system, where we had to migrate all the data from the old system to the one that would replace it. Senior leadership had requested a “scope expansion”, which in normal English simply means “more work, same deadline”. On paper, the request just looked ambitious. In reality, it would require my team to work evenings and weekends for a significant period of time.

I sat in on the call with our leadership team. The expectation was clear: say yes, figure it out, deliver.

Instead, I pulled up the numbers. “Here’s what we can realistically deliver by the deadline. Here’s what the expanded scope would require. And here’s what you’re asking from my team in terms of effort and availability.”

Silence. Then the project director leaned in. “So you’re saying no?”

“No, I’m saying this is what a yes actually costs. If that’s acceptable, we’ll do it. But I need you to see the trade-off clearly, especially in relation to the personal lives of my team members. Because in the end, they will be the ones paying for it.”

The conversation shifted, since no one really likes seeing their name attached to a decision that has a chance of burning people out. So instead, we talked about what was truly essential to achieve the desired outcome versus what wasn’t. The deadline wasn’t negotiable, understandably, but the definition of success became more realistic. My team delivered without burning out, and was given time to tackle aftercare at a later stage.

That meeting made me remember the key lesson from those student days: saying no isn’t refusal, it’s transparency and protection. It forces others to confront what they’re actually asking of you. And sometimes, when people see the real costs written out clearly, they make different decisions.

What No Buys You

What I didn’t realize until a little later was that those lessons around saying no also directly translated into income growth, though maybe not in the way you might expect.

Every time you (over)deliver on what’s promised instead of overpromising and scrambling, people will trust you with more things. More trust means more responsibility, and more responsibility means being considered for opportunities that others aren’t. Repeat that pattern a couple of times, and over time it gradually starts turning into salary increases and promotions.

Being strategically transparent about what my team or I could and couldn’t do became a contributing factor in several early career jumps. Not because I worked the most hours, but because people knew what to expect from me. Transparency and reliability made me more valuable than availability ever could.

I do my best to approach my own finances in a similar way as well. Every time I say no to lifestyle inflation when my salary increases, that money goes somewhere else useful. Every time I ignore a hyped investment, I stay with what actually works. And every time I refuse debt or make a purchase for something I don’t really need or want, I keep my options open.

That behavior has quietly compounded into a savings- and investment portfolio that gives me a certain degree of freedom I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

The Hangover That Taught Me A Lesson

I still think about that gruesome morning with the mayor sometimes. The sweating, the jumbled words, the faces of the people I’d disappointed. It was humiliating, but it also taught me something I’ve carried ever since.

You can’t say yes to everything without breaking something. Whether it’s your time, your energy, your reputation, your income, or your mental health: something always pays the price. 

Saying no still doesn’t come naturally, but I’ve learned that constantly saying yes to make people happy isn’t a real strategy. It’s a path to burnout, being broke, or even both. 

A “yes” scatters your energy, while a “no” focuses it. A “yes” makes you available, while a “no” makes you reliable. And the people worth keeping around aren’t the ones who’ll always need a “yes”. They’re the ones who respect you when you say no.

Say yes to the right things, and you grow. Say no to the wrong things, and you might grow even faster.

If this story gave you something, feel free to pass it on!

I once carried nearly the entire financial burden in a relationship for years. The breakup cost me roughly a year’s rent, but the real price was realizing I’d used money as a substitute for honesty and effort.

We were standing in IKEA, choosing furniture for our new apartment.

“What about this one?” she asked, pointing at a couch.

I looked at the price tag. Way too expensive. “Let’s keep looking,” I said.

She pointed at another. I hesitated. Not quite right.

A third option. “That one works,” I said, and we moved on.

What I didn’t say out loud: “I’m paying for all of this, so I get the final vote.” But I felt it, and over time that unspoken feeling started shifting things. The furniture I paid for became my furniture in my head, even though it sat in our apartment. The space we shared started feeling more like my place, where she happened to live.

I didn’t really realize it at the time. Love had convinced me we’d be together forever anyway, so what did it matter who paid? But something had already started breaking that I couldn’t see yet.

A Picture-perfect Relationship

The relationship lasted roughly five years. We started as housemates during our studies, and one thing eventually led to another. Everyone tells you not to do that, but yes, we did it anyway. And honestly, it worked great. She was literally down the hall, meaning every night could theoretically become date night if we wanted.

Our situation shifted when I graduated and got my first job. I moved back in with my parents to build up my emergency fund, and by year’s end we decided to properly move in together. The financial buffer was there and I had a steady salary, while she still had a few years of studying left.

Given our situation, I offered to cover the rent. It seemed completely logical to me at the time: I could pay without problems while she couldn’t, and from a long-term perspective it would also reduce her student debt. We were building a future together anyway, right? Everyone was winning with this setup.

Then I switched employers and negotiated well, landing a salary bump of over 50 percent. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just paying bills and surviving. I had actual breathing room now, and my savings rate increased drastically. I also started investing after a year of preparation, and developed the genuine interest in financial freedom that powers this blog today.

As my income kept steadily growing, I started paying more. New furniture, dinners, essentially most expenses beyond our shared food budget. That might sound generous, but a large portion of it was also simple lifestyle inflation after being financially stable.

Sounds like a great life, right? I 100% agree, and it also felt like that at the time. But there was something I couldn’t have predicted: the way we had agreed on our finances contributed to a dynamic that would slowly poison the relationship without either of us noticing until it was too late.

When Unconscious Entitlement Kicked In

This is the part I’m absolutely not proud of, and something I still deeply regret today: I started feeling increasingly entitled because I was carrying the entire financial load.

I absolutely couldn’t have admitted it at the time. I wasn’t even aware it was happening, and it didn’t become clear to me until years after everything ended. But at one point, there was no way around it: my unconscious entitlement heavily influenced the relationship, and not for the better.

She’d ask me to do the dishes. I’d think: “I just paid this month’s rent.”

She’d want help with groceries. I’d think: “I cover most of the food budget anyway.”

So I started doing less around the house. Not dramatically, not all at once, but gradually. The mental load shifted completely to her, while I told myself I was busy with work, focused on our financial future, and was contributing in other ways. But the truth was simpler and uglier: I felt entitled to do less, simply because I paid more.

What also didn’t help was the view I got of how she handled her own money. When her student loan came in, she’d spend parts of it on what looked like trivial things. Small decorations, more clothing even though eighty percent of the wardrobe was already hers, €10 or €20 gifts for friends.

I realize now those purchases were necessary for her to have some sense of control in a home where I essentiallly paid for everything else. Her way of making sure she had her own influence there. But all I could see was money being spent on things I didn’t think were needed.

So we talked about it, and I asked whether those expenses were really necessary. She’d get defensive, I’d get frustrated, and the conversations stopped quickly because they never resolved anything. Yet with every small purchase I saw but didn’t question, I got more frustrated. And with every conversation about money, she became more aware of her dependence on me.

We’d gotten ourselves in a downward spiral neither of us could escape.

Slowly Drifting Apart

So as time went by, influenced by our downward spiral, I unconsciously started treating financial decisions as mine alone to make.

Big purchases? I had the final say because my money was paying.

How we spent weekends? I felt justified saying no to activities I considered wasteful.

Future plans? I was thinking long-term about financial freedom, while she was still finishing her degree and increasing her student debt. We were on completely different tracks, and never stopped to ask if we were actually still heading in the same destination.

Being on separate wavelengths meant openly talking about money simply wasn’t done anymore, so I just kept most of my thoughts trapped in my head. The result? Those thoughts went straight from my brain into my behavior, without me explaining why I did what I did. That goes against all principles of great partnership, and caused the financial imbalance to eventually create an emotional imbalance as well.

The Holiday That Changed Nothing

Near the end, I paid for transport and housing for a small holiday abroad. We split activities and food, but I covered getting us there and keeping a roof over our heads.

A week after we were home again the relationship ended. On my mother’s birthday, after having just celebrated it with the whole family.

The holiday itself didn’t cause the breakup and, truth be told, itwas actually a very pleasant one. We’d booked a house in the French countryside, the kind of place people usually escape to after a breakup instead of before one. But I think being out of our day-to-day rhythm crystallized something for both of us. Maybe she finally felt the full weight of the imbalance. Maybe we both realized that what started as support had become something neither of us wanted anymore.

I moved back in with my parents again and received a small compensation to cover a portion of my expenses, one that took her almost two years to pay back. But what couldn’t be covered was years of rent paid in full, furniture left behind, holiday costs, and countless other expenses that accumulated over years of living together.

The final damage? Probably around €15k, a very conservative estimate and the biggest financial mistake of my life so far. Money I’d never see again, the cost of naivety and years of thinking money could substitute for honest communication. Of feeling entitled because I earned more, and of keeping score in my head while pretending I wasn’t.

What Actually Changed

There’s no way to know what would’ve happened if our finances were more equal, but my current relationship is completely different. And the difference shows up every single day.

We earn similar salaries, and split most things equally. When one earns more temporarily, we adjust proportionally without anyone feeling entitled or dependent. We talk about money openly, even when the conversations are awkward. And honestly? My girlfriend has turned finding meaningful ways to spend money into an art form, and she’s also the first one to call me out when I unnecessarily prioritize saving over actually living and enjoying life.

Every time we plan a trip or make a big purchase, I’m reminded how much I value that balance. Not because I read about it somewhere, but because I know exactly what it feels like when it’s missing. I’ve paid a hefty sum to learn what imbalance looks like, so I immediately recognize when things are better.

Please know that I don’t blame my ex for how things played out. We were both young and figuring things out. I made mistakes out of naivety, unconscious entitlement, and much more. She made mistakes too, of course, but the financial part is 100 percent on me. For thinking money could replace honest communication, for feeling entitled, and for silently keeping score while pretending I wasn’t.

It made me realize that both people need skin in the game, even if it’s not the same amount. Your financial future can’t rely on your relationship lasting forever, no matter how certain it feels, and awkward money conversations are still always cheaper than years of building frustration. Because then, eventually, the bill comes due. And it’s going to be much more expensive than you think.

Love made me financially blind. It convinced me that temporary support would naturally balance out over time. That “we’ll be together forever” meant individual security didn’t matter, and that talking about money is less romantic than quietly handling everything.

All of that is wrong. All of that is expensive, and I hope thay by sharing this story you’ll prevent the same mistakes I made. And that if this story sounds familiar, you’ll fix it before it’s too late.

If this story gave you something, feel free to pass it on!

Money stress hijacks your brain. Here’s how money worries pushed me into irrational decisions, and the lessons I’ll never forget.

My first sports bet was a very reckless multi-game combo, and it hit: my stake multiplied sevenfold. It should’ve felt like a genius move, but it actually felt like throwing a dart blindfolded, hitting bullseye, and hearing someone say: “Great! Now do it again”.

Of course I knew gambling was stupid, and I’d literally told other people “the house always wins”. But my savings were on the verge of running out, and financial stress had deleted every rational thought I’d ever had.

If you’ve ever experienced true money stress and got out of it, big chance you already know exactly where this is going.

Here’s how money worries turned me into someone I didn’t recognize anymore.

When the Buffer Ran Out

At the end of my studies, just after finishing my master’s degree, my savings were almost gone. The buffer I’d carefully built up to graduate debt-free was shrinking fast, and I didn’t have a job to build it up again. The finish line was in sight, but unfortunately it wasn’t one where you have your loved ones congratulate you with hugs and kisses.

By principle, I didn’t want to apply for social welfare. Not because I looked down on it, but because I wanted my first job to be something I chose, not something I was forced into by government pressure. That meant staying selective with applications, and only sending out resumes for roles I actually wanted.

Responsible? Maybe. Idealistic? Definitely. But my bank account disagreed. And that’s when the stress hit. Hard.

I stopped sleeping properly. I’d wake up at night checking my account balance like it might have magically changed. Every expense felt like a crisis. Meeting friends for coffee suddenly required considerations about whether I could afford it, and €5 groceries came with a calculation of how many days I had left until my savings were gone.

The constant mental math was exhausting, and that exhaustion made me vulnerable to something I’d always known was unwise: gambling.

When Rationality Left the Chat

Now before you judge me—and I wouldn’t blame you if you did—you should know that financial stress isn’t just a number on your bank app. It creeps into your head and body, completely rewiring your thoughts and feelings. My rational brain, the same one that got me my degree, went completely offline. Desperation opened doors I normally would’ve padlocked, so I tried to find a way to make money. Fast.

I’d always known gambling was dumb and that, from a mathematical perspective, you couldn’t win any money with it long-term. But stress bulldozed math until there wasn’t any of it left, so I went for it anyway.

I tried poker first. A classmate from high school had become a top-ranked pro in the Netherlands, and some desperate, irrational part of me thought that if he could do it, maybe I could too. I downloaded an app, deposited €50 I actually couldn’t afford to lose, and told myself I’d just play a few hands in low-stakes games to learn.

That wasn’t a wise decision, especially because those low-stakes games were extremely high-stakes for myself. Three hours later, nearly one-third of it was gone. I’d made every single rookie mistake: chasing losses, playing hands I should’ve folded, convincing myself the next hand would turn it around. The same brain that earned a master’s degree simply couldn’t do basic poker math anymore.

Then came football bets. My brain whispered: you know this sport, you’ve got an edge. As if my Sunday couch commentary rivaled bookmakers with supercomputers.

That was the moment I placed the successful-yet-reckless multi-game combo. My initial stake returned sevenfold, just like that.

The Trap Springs

It totally felt like undeserved luck, so I bet again. And for some inexplicable reason won that one as well. That couldn’t be luck anymore, now could it? Suddenly I felt like a king, and thought that this approach could maybe get me out of my financial troubles. But it was also the moment things gradually started going south, because I became even more reckless. I started placing smaller bets on high risk, high reward bets. It meant losing smaller amounts and occasionally winning big, although the wins usually didn’t outweigh the already incurred losses.

That cycle of winning and losing continued for a few weeks. Not with huge amounts, relatively speaking, but with money I absolutely couldn’t afford to lose given the situation I was in. Every loss convinced me the next win would save me, while every win convinced me I’d figured out the system.

I eventually reached a point where I would check betting odds during social events with friends, and calculate potential winnings instead of sleeping. The gambling had actually become the problem I was trying to solve with more gambling.

At some point, what I’d started thinking of as my ‘bankroll’ started playing the Jaws soundtrack. And when I was back at the exact same point as where I initially started, having gained nothing despite all the ups and downs, I realized the real danger wasn’t losing money anymore. It was losing myself.

I honestly don’t know how long that cycle would’ve continued. Maybe until I had nothing left. Maybe until I finally applied for welfare out of pure desperation.

But I was lucky, and got saved by external circumstances. Someone interrupted the pattern before either could happen.

The Message That Ended It All

What eventually got me out wasn’t a jackpot, it was a message on LinkedIn. I had created a profile there a few months before, put it on “open to work” status, and explicitly put in my profile header what kind of work I was looking for: A position on the crossroads between business and IT. 

Most recruiter messages I received felt like they were written by a broken chatbot. “We have an exciting opportunity in sales!”. Translation: “We haven’t read your profile at all, but really hope you can make us some money!”.

But one 'You've got mail' message I received after a couple of months of being in financial stress stood out. It was personal, specific, and warm. Someone had actually taken the time to read my profile and marked me as a high-potential in his niche, which in recruiter land is rarer than spotting a snowman in the Sahara.

It was an opportunity I couldn’t let go, so I called back that same day. It felt warm, natural, honest, human—literally the blueprint for what I want every story on this blog to feel like.

From there, things moved fast and I decided to formally kick off the application procedure. I prepared obsessively for over a week, nailed the interview, and got an offer that same day. Normally the company required an extra interview round and an IQ test. I skipped both.

I still cannot overstate how grateful I am for that LinkedIn message and the interactions that followed. They kickstarted my professional career, and made sure my bank account finally stopped screaming.

The Door That Closed Forever

When I landed that first job and saw my empty bank account finally showing signs of life, I also regained some mental clarity again. I immediately and permanently left the world of gambling behind me, with a promise to never, ever, be in financial stress again.

This hectic period taught me what no textbook ever could: experiencing financial stress isn’t about numbers at all. It’s about gradually losing control, dignity, clear thinking, and even yourself. Even just a few months of it had a brutal impact on me, so I can only imagine what it’s like for people who’ve been facing it for years. It drains your energy, your rationality, your joy, everything.

It also made me realize that having financial stability isn’t necessarily about getting rich. It’s simply about never being desperate enough to make decisions you already know are wrong, and that will put your life in a downward spiral.

So when I say I left the world of gambling for good, I mean all forms of it. Whether it’s lotteries, sports betting, slot machines, or anything else that promises “fast money”, all of it preys on the exact same emotions that once made me vulnerable. Poker as well, because even if you’re not a losing player, your winnings might actually come from someone desperately clinging onto it like myself at some point.

The only exception to the “no gambling” rule? A casino night with friends, with money I’m prepared to lose upfront and all-ins exclusively on the buffet. And my opinion if you’re someone who likes a gamble? I get it. I’ve been there. But my experience is that the “win” never feels as good as the stress feels bad.

I made some extremely unwise decisions that could have capsized everything, but was lucky enough to be pulled out before being swallowed by them. That 7x multiplier on my first bet? It wasn’t a win. It was bait. And it almost took me all the way down.

So today, I put money where long-term returns actually exist: investing, learning, building skills and products like this blog. All of those slowly compound over time. Turns out, financial freedom isn’t about Ferraris or fireworks. It’s about the quiet ability to focus on what really matters to you, without your bank account screaming louder than your brain.

If this story gave you something, feel free to pass it on!