The Fillennial

Author: The Fillennial

  • 8. My Mariokart Mentality Got Me My First Job, and More

    8. My Mariokart Mentality Got Me My First Job, and More

    From Mario Kart rivalries to job interviews, being prepared has turned “lucky breaks” into long-term confidence and career growth.

    This might sound weird for the beginning of a money story, but the first time I played Mario Kart with my older cousins on the Nintendo DS is still burned into my brain. Why? Because I got absolutely demolished, that’s why.

    I came dead last, every single round. At one point, my cousins laughed at me a bit too hard and I just walked away crying to find my parents. It made me realize two things: Rainbow Road is just chaos disguised as fun and I really, really hated losing.

    So I did what any slightly obsessive kid with too much free time and a grudge would do: I practiced. A lot.

    Hours of figuring out every drift, shortcut, and item box until it became second nature. Eventually, I reached the point where I almost couldn’t lose anymore. If you’re someone who thinks that Mario Kart is mostly luck, I would happily recommend trying this approach first.

    Weeks later at the next family gathering, the tables had turned. I didn’t just beat my family members once. I won every single race. Even my uncles and aunts jumped in to see if they could beat me. Ultimate victory, and tears of joy this time.

    The only problem? I wasn’t invited to play again at the next family gathering. Turns out, nobody really enjoys game night anymore when the little cousin suddenly decides to treat it like Formula 1 qualifying.

    I still really enjoy playing Mario Kart, and at the time this was just a silly family gaming story. But looking back, it was also my first true lesson in how preparation quietly stacks up until it eventually becomes luck’s lesser-known sibling.

    Growing Up Prepared

    Mario Kart was when I first realized the power of preparation, but it took me years to figure out that my parents had actually been cultivating that instinct for years at home already. All without my little brother and me having a single clue.

    So, how did that happen? Well, here’s the key detail: my mom was a primary school teacher.

    Our house basically doubled as an unofficial after-school program, but one that was so fun we didn’t even notice. We’d play math games without realizing that’s what they were, read books that “magically” showed up in class later, and sometimes helped her prep lessons. By the time I walked into an actual classroom, the material felt like a rerun most of the time.

    I’m very grateful for it now, because the importance of that early prep cannot be overstated. In primary school, it let me enthusiastically mess around with my friends without falling behind on school work. In high school it helped me keep up when things got tougher, since I’d already learned how to learn.

    I also realize now, years later, that my parents never really cared about my actual grades. Bizarre right? Especially because my mom was a teacher herself. But whenever I came home with a test result, they’d just ask one simple question: “Are you happy with the result?” In other words: The only thing we care about, is that you care about the behavior, mindset and effort that sets you up for success, whether you actually got it or not.

    That emphasis on effort over results probably explains why I never really felt pressured at school, and as a result actually did okay there. Was I the smartest kid around? Absolutely not, never have been and never will be. But I often had a head start, or was otherwise encouraged to create one for myself. Preparation had quietly become my cheat code, and I didn’t even know it.

    Student Life: Prepping My Way Into Leadership

    Fast forward to university. When I ran for chair of my study association, I wasn’t the only one. Two others wanted it too, so we had to interview for it. My strategy? Prepare until I could do it half asleep.

    I practiced my pitch endlessly. Sometimes in my head during boring lectures, sometimes out loud in my room. I asked friends to grill me with questions until my answers rolled out naturally. I’d grab coffee with students who’d held the role before, ask them about their paths, how they got it, and what had made them successful. You probably think I went a little overboard, and yes, in hindsight I absolutely did. But when the day came, it worked. I got the role.

    There were more interviews for other positions during my study time. Sometimes I was successful, sometimes not. But here’s the maybe underrated part of thorough preparation: it doesn’t guarantee you’ll win, but it does kill any nagging doubt after. If something doesn’t work out, at least you know it wasn’t because you slacked. And that’s probably another reason why my parents have always emphasized effort over outcome.

    When Preparation Finally Paid Off

    Still, the reality of student life is also that everything happens in a bubble. The biggest test actually came right after I graduated and urgently needed a job in the real world. I’d been putting out applications for months, being selective about what I actually wanted rather than just spamming resumes everywhere. And for a while, nothing was biting.

    Then a recruiter, out of nowhere, reached out on LinkedIn with a role that seemed perfect. We had a call that felt natural and genuine, and from there things moved fast. We decided to kick off the formal application process.

    Since I would get in financial trouble if I didn’t land that job, I treated the application the same way you’d learn playing the drums if it helps you to impress the girl you like: obsessively. Because when your moment comes, you want to absolutely nail it.

    I researched the company, the team, the problems they were solving. Had coffee with current employees, read industry whitepapers nobody enjoys, and practiced both technical and personality-related interview answers out loud. I even skipped going out those nights to give myself the best shot at it.

    When the day of the first interview came, I walked in knowing way more than just what the job description said, and it made me stand out. Normally the company required an extra interview round and an IQ test. I could skip both, and actually got an offer that same day.

    To everyone else, it probably looked like luck. But it wasn’t, or at least not all of it. It was preparation meeting opportunity, and I’d been getting ready much more elaborately than anyone around me expected.

    Preparation Compounds (Just Like Money)

    Preparation actually works a lot like long-term investing: Each small effort feels insignificant at first, but do it long enough and the effects start to show.

    Because I’d prepared, I was calm in interviews. Because I was calm, I landed leadership roles. Because I’d done those, step-ups in responsibility came with step-ups in pay. That’s not linear, that’s compound growth in disguise.

    Today I earn well above the Dutch average at a relatively young age. That’s partly privilege, timing, and the support of others, but also preparation nudging the odds in my favor at key moments. The biggest promotion I ever got came from successfully managing a crisis. Luckily I had already been in a similar situation a few years before, and could bring those lessons forward.

    And the payoff isn’t only financial. Preparation buys you something even more valuable: confidence. It makes challenges feel manageable, opportunities less scary, setbacks less permanent. That’s also why senior-level jobs almost always require experience, it’s just preparation wearing a different hat.

    When Luck Stops Looking Like Luck

    You never need to be 100% prepared, there will always be stuff you can only figure out by doing. But if money compounds when you save and invest, preparation compounds when you repeat small habits of learning, practicing, and showing up ready at critical moments.

    Mario Kart victories, over-prepared pitches, awkward first interviews, all of them looked small on their own. But over time, they stacked. Each effort built into the next until it wasn’t just a skill or a win anymore. It became a way of moving through life.

    Looking back, almost every turning point in my life came down to a combination of chance and being sufficiently ready when that chance showed up. That readiness already started at home, with parents who cared more about effort than outcomes and quietly prepared me without me even noticing. It cultivated a mindset that turned Rainbow Road from humiliation into victory, opened doors in student life, gave me confidence in job hunting, and shaped my career and income.

    Seneca was right: “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” But here’s the modern version: if you keep preparing, opportunities stop feeling like accidents. They feel like the next lap in the race. And this time, you’re ready for the banana peel.

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  • 7. I Hit My First €100K and Felt… Almost Nothing

    7. I Hit My First €100K and Felt… Almost Nothing

    Hitting €100k didn’t bring champagne. It brought calm, perspective, and the quiet freedom to choose without fear of money holding me back.

    I woke up in a five-star hotel in Sofia, Bulgaria. The kind of hotel with tall and heavy curtains that let through just enough sunlight to remind you it’s way too early. There was an espresso machine in the corner, a bathrobe hanging off a chair, and a minibar I definitely wasn’t going to touch because of the ridiculously expensive peanuts.

    It might sound like success. At least, the version of success my younger self would have imagined. But I wasn’t there for pleasure. I was there for work, with another day of back-to-back meetings ahead of me.

    Still half-asleep, I did what I always do in the morning: reaching for my phone and opening my banking app to check my portfolio. And there it was.

    Overnight, my total net worth had crossed €100,000.

    Not in cash stuffed under a mattress, but slowly built through years of consistent saving, investing, and letting compound growth do its thing. A milestone I’d silently worked toward for years. And now it was real.

    The Most Underwhelming Milestone Of All Time

    I didn’t know exactly what hitting a number like that would feel like, but I’d imagined something big. Like finishing a marathon and getting that runner’s high everyone talks about. Or solving a puzzle you’ve been working on for months and finally seeing the complete picture.

    And I’d love to tell you that’s what happened. That I jumped on the bed, ordered champagne for room service, or took a long and hot bath while listening to some funky music. But the truth when I was staring at the screen? I felt almost nothing.

    You can imagine that was genuinely unexpected, because I had cared and slowly built toward this milestone for years. But when the number finally appeared there was no fanfare, only a quiet recognition. A small exhale and lightness like I’d finally put down a heavy backpack I didn’t know I was carrying. A vague mix of distant satisfaction and calm, combined with moments of amazement and confusion that said“Well… that’s underwhelming”.

    And just as quickly as that feeling had come, it all went away.

    I put the phone down and my focus shifted back to the day ahead. I went to the hotel gym to wake myself up with an early workout, took a shower, had a hearty breakfast and stepped in the taxi to the office.

    The day moved on, and so did I.

    A Thousand Dinners

    The rest of that day was packed with the usual corporate rhythm of ideation, planning, decision-making, and PowerPoint slides that seemed designed to test your attention span more than your intellect.

    Yet as the day went by, something was settling inside me.

    That vague and distant calmness I’d felt earlier that morning wasn’t fading. If anything, it was getting clearer. Not bigger or more intense, but like a photograph slowly developing. And it wasn’t until later that day, when we were back at the hotel and freshening up for a dinner in the city, that I fully realized what reaching this milestone actually meant.

    We were choosing a restaurant. A colleague suggested a place he’d read about. Nice, but not cheap. Probably €80-100 per person.

    A year before, I probably would’ve checked the menu prices first and calculated what it would do to my spending room for the rest of the month. And maybe suggested somewhere cheaper while pretending I just wasn’t that hungry.

    This time? I just said yes.

    Not because €100 didn’t matter anymore. It did, and you can actually do a lot of nice things with money like that. But here’s what changed my perspective: with €100,000, I could now technically afford a dinner like that a thousand times over. That’s almost every day for three (!) full years. The realization didn’t suddenly make me want to spend recklessly, of course, but it did fundamentally shift how I thought about what I could and could not do.

    This one dinner wouldn’t create stress that lasted longer than the meal itself. It’s the same thinking behind why I’d already stopped checking my account balance before buying groceries, since the relative impact of smaller amounts like €10 had already changed. But I could now think about whether I wanted to actually do something, not just whether I could afford it, on an even larger scale.

    That’s what the milestone had given me. Not happiness, simply more space.

    Maybe you’ve felt this shift in your own life, too. That moment when money stops being the first filter for every decision. When “Can I afford this?” becomes “Do I want this?”. It’s subtle, but it changes everything.

    If something went wrong in life like getting sick, my car dying, or someone I love needing help, there probably wouldn’t be acute financial stress on top of everything else. There was a buffer now, and it was strong enough that even a severe emergency wouldn’t automatically become a financial crisis. That’s a different kind of freedom. More quiet. Less dramatic. But very real nonetheless.

    The overall feeling still remained underwhelming, but you can probably imagine I felt a little lighter and had a really nice dinner that evening. The food was great, but that financial realization made all of it taste just a little bit better.

    The Long Walk

    Looking back, the anticlimactic feeling actually made total sense. The milestone wasn’t dramatic, because the journey toward it hadn’t been either.

    Four years earlier, I’d started my first job after a period of financial stress with literally nothing saved. From there, it was a gradual climb: month by month, paycheck by paycheck, investment by investment.

    The saving habits my parents had instilled became automatic, my career growth let me put money away consistently, and the decision to start investing meant compound growth quietly started carrying some of the weight.

    The number grew so slowly that crossing the threshold wasn’t some sudden arrival. It was the final step of a very long walk, with the number simply catching up to a reality I’d already been living for a while.

    Lottery Winners and Movie Montages

    I also realized something else: my expectations didn’t align with reality because they had been shaped by completely wrong stories.

    Whenever I’ve seen someone reaching a financial milestone, it’s always been in an extreme situation. Influencers showing their extravagant lifestyles or how they made certain amounts of money in a couple of days. Lottery winners going from broke to millionaires overnight. Movies compressing rags-to-riches stories taking literal years into two-hour transformations. 

    Building wealth slowly simply doesn’t look like that at all. There’s no camera crew, no dramatic reveal, no confetti, and certainly no moment where life suddenly transforms. If you’ve managed to do it the slow way, the milestone is just an ordinary Thursday morning in a hotel room in Sofia, alone.

    No wonder my expectations didn’t match reality.

    No Party, Just Peace

    Here’s what that quiet morning in Sofia taught me: financial milestones don’t feel the way you expect them to. And that could very well be because our expectations are shaped by examples that don’t show the actual reality of gradually building wealth.

    The number didn’t make me experience extreme happiness like I thought it would, and in hindsight it also shouldn’t have. It just made me quieter inside. More at peace. Fewer worries about my financial situation. Knowing that if there were setbacks in life, there would still be enough left to last me a while. Knowing that options existed if I needed them.

    It wasn’t a party moment. Instead, it was a peaceful moment.

    Maybe that’s what financial milestones actually are, especially when you get to them slowly. Not dramatic transformations that change you when you arrive, but quiet confirmations of the peace you’ve been building along the way.

    That morning in the hotel, I wasn’t celebrating something new. I was simply recognizing something that had been there for a while already, just waiting for me to see it clearly.

    And no, I still didn’t get those ridiculous minibar peanuts. I promise. Some things just aren’t worth it, no matter how much you’ve got on paper.

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  • 6. A Billionaire Paid For My Curry and Taught Me a Lesson in Success, Money and Humility

    6. A Billionaire Paid For My Curry and Taught Me a Lesson in Success, Money and Humility

    Dinner with a billionaire taught me that wealth doesn’t have to change who you are. True success is carrying money lightly, with humility and clarity.

    “You’re welcome to join us, if you want.”

    You know that feeling when your mouth makes decisions that will give your brain an existential crisis? When social autopilot takes over and you can’t believe what just came out? This was one of them.

    The words had simply left my mouth before my brain could stop them. I’d just invited a billionaire to share our table at a random Indian restaurant in Munich, and was suddenly full of adrenaline because of it.

    But he looked at me and smiled. “Sure, why not?”

    What followed was one of those rare evenings that looks ordinary from the outside, but shifts something fundamental in how you see the world.

    The Conference

    I was in Munich with a colleague for a two-day conference, hosted by the company behind a platform we rely on heavily at work. It was one of those big-budget corporate productions: massive screens, polished stages, and enough coffee to power a small nation. The agenda was packed with technical deep-dives, product demos, and the kind of networking where business cards get exchanged like trading cards at a schoolyard.

    The event was opened with a welcome speech by the founder of the company. He was a man who had turned his ideas into a billion-dollar company, and as a result had become worth a couple of them himself. His speech wasn’t flashy or dramatic, just a warm introduction: “Here’s why we’re here, this is where we’re going with the industry and our company. Thanks for coming.” Twenty minutes, a smile, and he was gone.

    Still, you could feel the weight of his presence. This was someone who had built something massive. The kind of person whose net worth has more zeros than most people’s phone numbers.

    After the end of the second day, most of the attendees immediately caught flights home. My colleague and I were staying the night, so we decided to grab dinner at the nearest restaurant: an Indian place just down the street from the hotel.

    But what we couldn’t have prepared for, was that the most memorable and insightful part of the entire trip wouldn’t be the conference at all.

    The Invitation

    We’d just settled in and were already halfway through our papadums, when a familiar figure walked through the door.

    It was the founder. This time just a few meters away, not at the other end of a conference hall where we’d needed TV screens to actually see him.

    No entourage, no bodyguards, no assistant clearing the path ahead of him. An ordinary man in a jacket, scanning for a table like any other hungry traveler who’d just survived two days of non-stop PowerPoint presentations.

    It was like being in a bookstore and suddenly seeing your favorite celebrity walk in, so we were both stunned and excited. Not exactly the combination that helps you act cool. Before we could think it through, we walked over to introduce ourselves and ask for a photo. While he was still halfway out of his coat, a staff member apologetically explained the restaurant was fully booked for the evening.

    And that was the moment I heard myself blurt out that he was welcome to join us, before I could even think about it.

    Smooth. Very smooth. My brain immediately started filing a complaint about my mouth’s decision-making process.

    But to our absolute surprise, he said yes.

    An Extraordinarily Ordinary Dinner

    So there we were, sharing a table with the man whose product had literally shaped our careers. My colleague was clearly somewhat starstruck and in need of a quick reboot to return to normal, probably not a big surprise if you’ve ever been in those situations where you suddenly become hyper-aware of everything you’re saying and doing.  

    I also felt myself calculating my words more than normal, but I tried to keep the conversation grounded. Previous experiences with high-level executives had taught me that the best thing you usually could do is just treat them like a normal person.

    Fortunately, those feelings faded quickly and the conversation flowed naturally from the start.

    We talked about the conference and the sessions we’d attended. He asked what we thought about the product vision that was presented. My colleague found his voice back and mentioned one feature he was really excited about. The founder laughed. “Actually took us three years to fully figure that one out, and we nearly gave up on it twice. But I hope that can remain our secret.”

    That set the tone of the rest of the conversation and opened the door for more. I asked about the early days, and how it all started.

    He leaned back. “Back in the ’80s, I took out a big loan to buy the computer we needed to build the first version of the platform. Massive machine. Took up half a room.” He gestured at our phones on the table. “Compared to what you’ve got in your pocket? Absolutely useless.”

    “That’s a terrifying amount of money for a machine that size, especially if you’re just getting started” I said.

    “It was everything,” he admitted. “I was lucky to have one client who believed in what we were building. Just one. Without them, we would’ve been finished.”

    The way he said it, no drama, just matter-of-fact, made it clear he knew exactly how close things had been.

    My colleague asked how he’d managed to grow from there. The founder grinned. “Well, first my own development team had to kick me off the product.”

    We looked at him, confused.

    “Turned out I was introducing way too many bugs into the code. My developers got sick of fixing my mistakes, so they basically told me to stop touching it.” He laughed. “That’s when I figured out my skills were more on the strategic side, including building the company and talking to clients. The product itself needed people who knew what they were doing, and that for sure wasn’t me haha!”

    Then he turned the conversation to us. How had we ended up working with his platform? What were our backgrounds?

    So we explained our paths, the unexpected turns, the moments we realized this was what we wanted to do. He listened carefully, asked follow-up questions, genuinely curious about our projects and careers.

    But I also noticed something else. He wasn’t just making conversation. He was learning. How we used the product, what had drawn us to it, where it fit into our work, what we were struggling with. Clearly someone with intense passion and focus for what he’d built, who stayed curious about how it shaped real careers like ours.

    And as the evening went on, we also talked about the industry we all loved. Swapped stories about projects gone wrong, laughed about corporate tech absurdities. When money came up, and it did occasionally, it was always in passing. A figure related to a decision, a risk, a strategy. Never as something impressive by itself.

    For an hour or two, it stopped feeling like dinner with a billionaire. It was just three people who cared about the same field, talking over curry and naan.

    The Card

    When the check came, we instinctively reached for it.

    But he didn’t hesitate. Out came an American Express Centurion card, the mythical “black card” I’d only ever read about. Invitation-only, no spending limit, reserved for people who move money in amounts most of us will never see in our lives.

    He handed it to the server with a grin, and said to us “One way or another, your company pays for it anyway.”

    We laughed. He wasn’t wrong.

    The card was a reminder of just how different his financial reality was from ours. But by that point, it felt almost irrelevant. The wealth was obvious, of course, but what made the dinner memorable was how lightly he carried it.

    When all was said and done, we took a photo and thanked him for the memorable evening. Then we walked back through the cool Munich night, both amazed and confused about what had just happened.

    The next morning, my colleague posted about our encounter on LinkedIn. For 24 hours, we were mini-celebrities in the platform community. Connection requests poured in from people we’d never met, all wanting to know about the dinner.

    The Definition of “Light”

    What really stayed with me long after the LinkedIn buzz faded wasn’t the photo or the black card. It was the realization that wealth doesn’t have to change how you show up. Because let’s be real, we’ve all met both types: those who wear success and those who carry it. And I also know for a fact I’ve had moments of being the former rather than the latter. 

    But here was someone worth billions, and you’d never know it from the conversation or his demeanor. He told stories about his failures and near-misses with humor, and asked genuine questions about our careers because he was genuinely curious. When money came up, it was always in relation to decisions and strategy, never as something impressive by itself.

    Because of this dinner, I now have an example of what “carrying money lightly” actually looks like. It’s when your wealth and privilege is obvious, but never the point. When you can pull out a black card and still have it feel like the least interesting thing about you.

    Financial success doesn’t automatically make you different or better. In some cases, it might even be a humbling experience by itself. It will only change you if you let it. And that principle applies everywhere, whether you’re already a billionaire or just getting started on your wealth-building journey.

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  • 5. Speeding on the Highway in a Porsche Gave Me Unexpected Lessons in Financial Freedom

    5. Speeding on the Highway in a Porsche Gave Me Unexpected Lessons in Financial Freedom

    A Porsche ride taught me that true financial freedom isn’t luxury, it’s the calm to shrug off small setbacks without losing peace of mind.

    “We’d better get there on time. A fine doesn’t matter.”

    That sentence, said casually while I was sitting in the back of a car going 160 km/h on a highway where only 120 km/h was allowed, taught me more about money than any book ever could.

    I was in my early twenties, still a student, and my then-girlfriend’s uncle had offered to drive us across the country for a family birthday. To avoid hours of public transport connections, he and his husband had picked us up at the nearest train station.

    When they pulled up, I realized immediately that this wasn’t just a nice car. This was a Porsche. And a brand new one at that. The kind of car I’d personally only seen in movies, where rich kids use them to drive their girlfriends all around their cozy coastal town, or parked outside expensive hotels in the city.

    My girlfriend slid into the backseat like it was the most normal thing in the world. She’d known her uncle her entire life, and had been in cars like this before.

    I, on the other hand, was absolutely buzzing.

    A Different Universe

    Sliding into the backseat felt like stepping onto a spaceship. The leather seats were softer than anything I’d ever sat on. The dashboard glowed with this subtle, futuristic light. Everything was quiet, not silent, but this expensive kind of quiet where you could hear the precision of German engineering humming beneath you.

    I tried to play it cool, and failed spectacularly at it. My eyes were darting everywhere, taking in every detail. The way the doors closed with that perfect thunk. The smell of new leather. The little Porsche crest embedded in the headrests.

    My girlfriend noticed me vibrating with excitement and smiled. This was her normal, although she was a semi-broke student as well. For me, however, this was a completely different universe.

    Then we hit the highway.

    The Moment Everything Shifted

    For the first stretch, the ride was smooth and controlled. Effortless power, like the car was barely trying. We merged onto the highway, and I watched the speedometer climb: 100, 120, 140…

    Then we hit a wide, empty stretch.

    Her uncle glanced in the rearview mirror, caught my wide-eyed stare, and smiled. “Want to see what it can really do?”

    Before I could answer, he tapped a button on the center console. Sport mode.

    The quiet hum transformed into a deep, throaty roar. My stomach dropped as we launched forward. The acceleration didn’t feel aggressive, it felt inevitable. Like the car was finally allowed to do what it was designed for.

    I gripped the seat. My girlfriend laughed at my reaction. Her uncle and his partner? Completely calm. No nervous laughter, no “oh wow” moment. Just two people casually enjoying their car, like this was a regular Tuesday afternoon.

    We settled into cruising speed, fast but not reckless. Controlled. Confident.

    After my heart rate returned to normal, I asked the question everyone would have: “Aren’t you afraid of getting a ticket?”

    He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even glance away from the road. Just smiled and said: “We’d better get there on time, we’ve got the entire country to cross. A fine doesn’t matter.”

    A fine doesn’t matter.

    What “Doesn’t Matter” Actually Means

    I’d never advocate breaking traffic laws, I was nervous enough just sitting in the backseat, but that line stopped me cold.

    Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Casual. Matter-of-fact. The way you’d shrug off dropping a pen or getting some water spilled on your shirt.

    For him, a speeding ticket was an inconvenience. A piece of paper that would get paid and forgotten within a week. An irritation, not a crisis.

    For me, a speeding ticket would have been a genuine problem. Not in the least because I didn’t have my driver’s licence yet, but also because it would’ve rippled through my entire month. Not catastrophic, I had a small buffer, but it would have meant keeping a tighter grip on my expenses for weeks.

    They had leather seats and sport mode. I had a second-hand bike and careful monthly spending.

    But the real difference wasn’t the Porsche. It was the calm.

    The Freedom I Didn’t Know Existed

    I’d always thought financial freedom meant luxury. The kind of stuff you see on TV: expensive cars, designer clothes, champagne dinners. The visible markers of wealth.

    But sitting in that backseat, watching how casually he navigated a decision that would have stressed me for weeks, I realized: financial freedom isn’t about what you can buy, even if it’s an expensive car like that. It’s about what doesn’t bother you. 

    They weren’t showing off. They weren’t trying to impress anyone. They were just living their lives. And in their world, a ticket, an unexpected expense, a last-minute change of plans, were shrugs rather than catastrophes.

    That calm. That quiet confidence that you’ll be fine no matter what small thing goes wrong. That’s what I suddenly realized I wanted as well.

    Not the Porsche itself, although the ride was awesome, but the breathing room. The peace of mind. The ability to make decisions based on what you actually want, not what your bank account will allow.

    The Man Behind the Wheel

    Over the years that followed, as I became part of the family and spent more time with them, I also had more conversations with my girlfriend’s uncle.

    It turned out he was a partner at a private equity firm. The kind of role where you deal with numbers so large they stop feeling real. Investments worth millions. Deals that could make or break companies.

    But here’s what struck me most: he was one of the most humble, relaxed people I’d ever met. He didn’t talk about money unless you asked. Didn’t flex his wealth or name-drop deals. Just lived his life with this quiet, unshakable confidence. Money was a tool he understood deeply, not a source of stress or a symbol of status.

    He became, without me fully realizing it at the time, one of the few people who fundamentally shaped how I think about money today.

    More Rides, More Lessons

    That first ride wasn’t the last. Over the next few years, there were more Porsche adventures. Different models, different roads, same underlying calm. So of course, curious as I was, I asked more about his relationship with money. 

    In one conversation, he told me something I’ll never forget: “There’s more than enough money in the world, believe me. Especially if you intentionally and intelligently look for it. And over time, you’ll get used to increasing numbers.”

    As I progressed in my career, started earning more, saw my savings and investments grow, it clicked. The numbers that once felt impossibly large became just numbers. Your sense of scale adjusts. What matters isn’t the absolute amount; it’s whether you still have enough breathing room to not be bothered by most setbacks.

    Right after I landed a big promotion, feeling overwhelmed by more responsibilities and stakeholders, his advice was simple: “Stay focused on what you actually need to achieve. It’s very easy to get sidetracked at work and lose your actual goals.”

    Then he added: “That means saying no a lot. Or simply not reading every email that comes into your inbox, just focusing on the ones that matter.”

    Coming from someone managing deals worth millions, that hit hard. Permission to prioritize ruthlessly. Still one of the best pieces of career advice I ever received.

    What also surprised me about him was the contrast. He drove Porsches, but lived remarkably simply otherwise. Small home, normal clothes from shops most Dutch people shop at, nothing ostentatious. He just spent freely on what mattered to him: cars, good food and experiences.

    What That Ride Actually Taught Me

    That Porsche ride, and the conversations that followed, showed me a lifestyle I’d never experienced up close.

    I’d only seen that kind of wealth on TV before, where it looked like champagne and showing off. Up close, it looked different: a humble guy driving a car he loved, pressing sport mode, shrugging at a speeding ticket, and living modest everywhere else. Intentional choices, ruthless prioritization, genuine calm.

    It didn’t make me jealous. I didn’t want his exact life or the trade-offs he had to make to get it, but it did give me a different perspective on what being affluent could look like in practice.

    Not luxury for luxury’s sake, not impressing people, just breathing room. The calm of knowing you’ll be fine, no matter what small thing goes wrong.

    And building that calm, breathing room, and peace of mind? That is step one.

    And step 2? Maybe a Porsche.

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

  • 4. Midnight Portfolio Checks Have Made Me a Better Investor

    4. Midnight Portfolio Checks Have Made Me a Better Investor

    My first year of investing: down 10%, checking my portfolio at 2am, and convinced I was doing everything wrong. Turns out, I was doing everything right. Why? Because that year’s money wasn’t about returns, it was about learning to stay consistent.

    I began my investment journey in April 2022. Three months later, I was already down 10% and checking my portfolio at 2am, even though the market was closed.

    Sound familiar? Or maybe you’re worried that’ll be you?

    Here’s what I’ve learned: that obsessive checking, those red numbers, those sleepless nights? Best education I ever paid for. Turns out your first year of investing isn’t about making big bucks at all, it’s about learning how you actually handle money when it’s doing things you can’t control. You’re paying to discover how you actually handle volatility, not how you think you will.

    And that’s something that all finance content saying to “start investing early” doesn’t tell you, so there’s no harm in preparing for what to expect before putting your own money on the line.  

    The Year I Spent Learning Before Risking Anything

    My first step into investing actually wasn’t opening my investment account. It was listening.

    One of my best friends had recommended the Dutch podcast Jong Beleggen (Young Investing). The premise was brilliant: a young entrepreneur had just sold his company and was investing the proceeds in real-time, documenting everything. Each week, he and a co-host discussed investing basics, their portfolios, and most importantly, how the swings made them feel.

    For almost a year, I listened religiously while commuting, cooking, and doing laundry. It was my crash course in what investing actually looks like. Not just numbers on a screen, but the panic when those numbers turn red, the temptation to sell at the bottom, the discipline to stay still when your brain screams at you to do something.

    One episode in particular stuck with me: the host’s portfolio had dropped several thousand euro in a single week, and he had received some sarcastic notes in his social circles about the risks of the stock market. But he actually sounded fine. Not happy, of course, but not panicked either. Just: “This is what markets do. I’m not selling.”

    I remember thinking: “If he can handle thousands dropping calmly, maybe I can handle smaller amounts too.”

    And that year of listening turned out to be nothing less than gold. Because when I finally started my investment journey, shit hit the fan almost immediately.

    April 2022: When Learning Money Got Real

    I opened my investment account in April 2022, the moment I had enough financial space to permanently start investing €500 per month. My strategy was simple: invest structurally in a globally diversified ETF and one or two thematic ETFs for personal interest, and let time do the work.

    But within weeks, my portfolio started swinging like crazy. Three months in, I was down 10%. Five months in, somehow up 15%, and down 11% by the end of the year. It later turned out that I’d begun my journey, unknowingly, right before the start of a bear market.

    So knowing that I wasn’t alone, that this was normal, that experienced investors also stayed calm, had already made the year of listening worth it by itself. Because when that first 10% drop hit, I heard the podcaster’s voice. If he could stay calm losing thousands, I could stay calm losing hundreds.

    But what I couldn’t have prepared for was the obsession. The constant urge to check. The excitement mixed with anxiety every time I opened my banking app.

    My portfolio had more mood swings than a teenager on Red Bull, and I was checking it like social media.

    The 2am Portfolio Check (And Why I Couldn’t Look Away)

    There were moments, especially around that near-immediate 10% dip, when I’d wake up in the middle of the night and instinctively reach for my phone. Not panicking, exactly. More like… I couldn’t not look. Probably a case of ‘New Investor Syndrome’, which apparently included constantly watching my money move in real-time. Even when it couldn’t.

    My portfolio would be deep in the red, easily €100+ down from what I’d put in, and I’d stare at the numbers. Unchanged, because (obviously) the market was closed. Still the same as the day before. Still the same red color.

    Admittedly, despite all my preparation, the temptation to sell was absolutely there. That voice saying “Sell now, stop it from getting worse. Wait for things to stabilize, then get back in.” But I also knew that 2am emotional decisions and bear markets are a terrible combination. That selling locks in losses, while doing nothing keeps the door open for recovery.

    So I’d close the app, force myself to put the phone down, and try to sleep. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. And the next morning I’d check again, of course. Still not from panic, but from that new investor excitement mixed with morbid curiosity. “How bad is it today? Did it recover? Should I do something?”

    Maybe you’ve felt this too once, and not necessarily with investing. That weird pull to check something you know hasn’t changed, just because you can’t not look. Like refreshing your email for a response you know isn’t coming yet.

    But in those situations, the right answer was always: do nothing. And slowly, painfully, I got better at actually doing nothing. Because as the excitement faded, red numbers started feeling less like catastrophe and more like… just information. Numbers that didn’t matter until years later anyway.

    And that long-term perspective was crucial. Because it was until late 2023, one-and-a-half years after getting started, that the numbers stayed green for good. And it had been exactly that gradual adaptation to seeing red without reacting that had kept me invested.

    What Learning Money Actually Bought

    In hindsight, all the money invested during that first year was learning money. Each red day wasn’t a loss, it was a lesson I was paying to learn. Every time I’d check the app, acknowledge the number, and then do nothing, unconsciously building the resilience I didn’t know I needed.

    The obsessive checking phase eventually faded, especially once I’d experienced enough nights where nothing I did at 2am would change anything. The market just did what it did. My job was to simply keep investing and otherwise leave it alone, staying disciplined even when my instincts screamed to tinker.

    But most importantly, I learned I could handle volatility with real money. My own money. Not theoretical calculator money, but actual saved euros. And that eventually gave me the confidence to increase my contributions from €500 to €1,000 after getting a promotion at work. Without paying that learning money, I never would have felt comfortable doing that.

    The overall mechanics of investing I had already learned, but the education from actually doing it was something completely different. It was about learning how I react under pressure, which you simply cannot learn from books. You have to pay for that with your own money and emotions.

    Why “I Wish I’d Started Earlier” Is Wrong

    It’s tempting to think I “lost” by not starting earlier. That more years in the market means more money today. But here’s the truth: I started exactly when I was ready.

    Before 2022, I didn’t have money I could lock away long-term. My emergency fund was still building, so starting earlier would have meant using money I might’ve needed, and that would’ve made the first drop catastrophic instead of uncomfortable.

    Looking back, I also really needed that listening year. It was like someone telling me to 'be better than the Gap and giving my wardrobe a complete overhaul', but instead of learning to dress for success, I was mentally preparing to handle red numbers without panicking.

    The podcast helped me understand that volatility was normal, that experienced investors also see red, and that patience beats action. It made me survive my first bear market instead of immediately quitting after my first bad experience.

    Your First Investments Are Like Your First Car

    If you’re thinking about starting your own investment journey, here’s what I wish someone had told me: Treat the beginning like driving school, where you mainly learn how to not crash your car. Because even when you know how to get around, you don’t immediately buy a Ferrari. You start with something affordable that you can dent while learning not to crash.

    Investing is exactly the same. Your first money in the market? That’s your learning car. It’s supposed to get dinged up and teach you how you handle things when they go wrong, not how you think you will.

    So spend some time preparing first, even before getting started. Listen to podcasts, read about others’ experiences, understand what you’re getting into emotionally, not just mechanically. And when you’re ready, start with amounts where red numbers are uncomfortable but not catastrophic. You need to feel it, but you also need to handle it without panic-selling.

    And when your portfolio inevitably drops, because it will, remember: you paid for this education. The question isn’t whether you’ll see losses or feel tempted to check constantly. The question is whether you’ll learn from those impulses or let them drive your decisions.

    My first year’s volatility eventually bought me the mindset that’s kept me invested through every dip since, and that even occasionally made me put in money on what later turned out to be “best buy” moments. So being immediately down 10%, awake at 2am, and convinced I was doing it all wrong? All of it was learning money, and it was the best tuition I ever paid.

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

  • 3. An Xbox Game Taught Me the Principles of Investing and Early Retirement

    3. An Xbox Game Taught Me the Principles of Investing and Early Retirement

    Fable II taught me investing lessons long before real life did: buy assets, let money work for you, and build the freedom to play on your own terms.

    When I started my investing journey, the numbers were small at first. But after years of consistent investing I watched the growth gradually starting to accelerate, and something about that felt weirdly familiar. I couldn’t quite place it at first, and that feeling of familiarity kept nagging at me.

    Maybe you’ve experienced something similar as well. That weird recognition when something you learned as a kid suddenly starts making sense in your adult life. Like muscle memory, but for concepts instead of movements.

    It took me a few weeks before it clicked: I’d experienced this exact investing thing before, years ago, in a video game where I spent as much time kicking chickens and flirting with villagers as actually saving the world.

    That game was Fable II, and I still love it today. Not because it tried to teach me anything about money, but because it gave me a gaming experience that I’ve never been able to get anywhere else.  

    It also let me unconsciously experience how investing works and feels, long before I ever opened my first investment account. Not through lectures or tutorials, but by letting me become a landlord in a medieval fairytale world drenched with British humor and sarcasm.

    Why a Game From 2008 Still Feels Like Home

    Fable II is a fantasy RPG set in the fictional world of Albion, and was released in 2008. It is absurd, charming, and still one of my favorite games of all time, which is why I replay it virtually every year. Not because the graphics hold up or the combat is revolutionary, but because there’s something genuinely cozy about it.

    If you’ve never played it: imagine Monty Python meeting The Sims, and every NPC having a strong British accent that makes even insults sound charming. If you did play it, you already know exactly what I’m talking about, and you’re probably remembering your own ridiculous adventures in the game.

    Most RPGs make you the Chosen One from the start, but Fable II does something entirely different. Sure, you’ll save the world at some point, but first you need to eat, pay rent, and prove yourself. And maybe marry that sexy shopkeeper you’ve been flirting with, even though you already have a spouse in another village.

    It’s that mix of epic quests, mundane choices and absurd twists that makes the world feel lived-in. You’re not just watching Albion’s economy, you’re actively participating in it. Combine that with golden-hour lighting and a world you can fully explore in 40 hours, and you’ll get something rare: a game that feels like a warm hug, even when you’re fighting trolls.

    Working Or Sleeping For Your Money

    The game doesn’t hand you a lot of money when starting your journey. You’re a hero, sure, but you’re also broke. You need gold to survive.

    The obvious route? Side hustles like blacksmithing, woodcutting or bartending, where your earnings depend on your skill at mashing buttons. Then there’s the hustler approach: buy items at one shop, and then sell them at another for profit. Or you can gamble if you’re desperate, though just like in real life there’s a big chance you’ll end up with empty pockets — the house always wins in the end.

    All of these activities can make you money, but they also require you to actively grind for hours on end.

    As for spending? You can buy better weapons and clothing, gamble it away, or buy properties. And that’s where investing suddenly comes into play.

    During my first playthrough, relatively early in the game, I noticed some buildings had “For Sale” signs. The cheapest options were market stalls, and I had just enough gold for the vegetable stall on the town square. I bought it mostly out of curiosity and then went off to fight bandits, misbehave in a pub with my partner by doing weird dances and flipping people off, and kick some more chickens along the way.

    When I checked my gold balance later, it had grown. The stall had been collecting rent every five minutes of active playtime. Not much, but it was accumulating without me doing anything. 

    Wait. Earning money while not actively working? That caught my attention.

    If you’ve ever played a game with any kind of economy system, you probably know this feeling. That moment when you realize you’ve stumbled onto something that breaks the game’s intended progression. It feels like cheating, except it’s completely allowed.

    From Broke Blacksmith to Medieval Mogul

    So I bought another property, and then another. The rent from my first properties helped me afford bigger ones, each purchase making the next one easier. I wasn’t just collecting rent anymore, I was actually watching my money compound in real-time. Every gold coin went straight back into buying more properties, and property five came faster than property two, while property ten came faster than property five.

    Before long, I owned dozens of properties across Albion: market stalls, houses, shops, taverns. And eventually, the largest property in the game: a castle worth one million gold. That number felt impossible when initially blacksmithing for 50 gold at a time, but here it was. Not because I was the strongest fighter, though I became that too once I could afford all the strength boosting potions, but because I’d figured out that passive income beats active grinding.

    Properties generated rent whether I played or not, and they also went up in value as the town economy improved. The implicit lesson was clear: buy productive assets, dump the profits back in, and let time do its magic.

    Eventually, gold wasn’t a constraint anymore and I could retire myself from actively working for it. The result? Doing quests because the stories were interesting, not because I needed the reward. Exploring because I actually wanted to get to know the world better, not because I was hunting treasure.

    This financial freedom and “early retirement” didn’t come from buying the newest shiny sword, it came from owning the blacksmith that sold it to every other wannabe hero. And that feeling, even in-game, was surprisingly real. Not because pixels mattered, but because the progression felt earned and I could watch the growth happen.

    And here’s the coolest part: even when my mum angrily barged into my room and unplugged the Xbox after I’d been playing for hours, my character kept earning gold. When I finally returned the next day, after dutifully receiving my lecture about screen time, I’d still made more of it.

    When My Video Game Strategy Became My Investment Strategy

    Fast forward a decade. I’m in my mid-twenties, opening my first investment account and buying ETFs for the first time.

    If the companies in those ETFs paid dividends, they got automatically reinvested. That was exactly like reinvesting my first market stall rent in a new property. I watched my portfolio slowly grow through the ups and downs of the market, each gain making future gains larger. Earlier investments had more time to grow, just like earlier property purchases in Fable.

    The mechanics were identical. One used digital gold coins and the other used actual euros, but the pattern was the same.

    The feelings matched as well. Watching my actual portfolio grow felt like watching my property empire expand, with at some point that same “holy shit, this is actually working” feeling. Hitting €10,000 invested felt like buying my first major property, while hitting €100,000 felt like owning the castle. Different stakes, but a similar sensation about having built something that compounded while simultaneously seeing financial constraints loosening.

    Playing Fable helped my investing journey because I’d already experienced compound growth there. “Own productive assets”, “reinvest for acceleration”, and “time amplifies everything” weren’t abstract concepts anymore. They were patterns I’d already watched play out with pretend money, but now they were happening in real life.

    My brokerage app doesn’t have chickens to kick, though, which honestly is a serious loss.

    The Best Lessons Often Sneak Up On You

    I still replay Fable II almost every year, and I always start the same way: earn enough gold as fast as possible, buy that first property immediately, and start the compound growth cycle from day one.

    It’s become a ritual, but it’s also a reminder.

    Sometimes the most practical education comes from the least likely places. Sometimes it comes from a medieval fantasy world where you can kick chickens, seduce villagers, own taverns, and accidentally learn that cash flow beats combat skills.

    Fable II gave me something most investing books don’t: a reference point that made investing make sense and feel familiar when I finally started for real. I didn’t just learn that compound growth works, I’d seen it happen before. I didn’t just understand passive income conceptually, I experienced what it feels like when money comes in while you’re doing something else.

    My guess is that you probably also have your own version of this. Might’ve been a different game, a book, a summer job, or simply watching your parents teach you something that only made sense later. The source matters way less than realizing that a random experience suddenly becomes useful.

    So next time someone says video games are a waste of time, tell them yours taught you about compound growth and passive income. Not because it sounds impressive, but because it might actually be true.

    And if they don’t believe you? Tell them to buy a vegetable stall in Albion and report back in a year.

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

  • 2. The Career Advantages I Didn’t Earn Still Help Me Every Day

    2. The Career Advantages I Didn’t Earn Still Help Me Every Day

    I tick all the privilege boxes. That’s not guilt or bragging, it’s context for everything I write about money. Here’s what having the odds stacked in your favor actually looks like.

    In 2022, Dutch journalist Joris Luyendijk published a book that pissed off a part of the country, made another nod along uncomfortably, and opened the eyes of many. His book, De Zeven Vinkjes (The Seven Checkmarks), argued that if you tick seven specific boxes, your odds of ending up in the cultural or financial elite in The Netherlands are much higher.

    The seven? Male, white, straight, academic degree, speaking ‘proper’ Dutch, having at least one Dutch parent, and having them be rich or well-educated. The result when you tick all the checkmarks? You’ll fit in more easily with the culture of the elite, because these traits form their collective foundation. 

    Maybe you’re reading this and already counting your own checkmarks, or maybe you’re thinking about the ones you don’t have. Either way, I promise this isn’t about making anyone feel bad. It’s about seeing the invisible forces that shape all of our paths, because this combination of real-life natural 20’s compounds in ways most of us don’t see, especially when we have them.

    My Seven Checkmarks

    I tick all seven boxes. All of them.

    Now before you picture me growing up in a mansion with a tennis court and ponies: nope. I’m not the heir to a multi-billion empire, and you will not unexpectedly fly business class with me if we're taking a trip. I grew up in a normal middle class household: My mom was a primary school teacher, and my dad worked for the Dutch government. We were comfortable, but our family cars were second-hand Toyotas that definitely didn’t have massage seats.

    Nevertheless, the advantages were real. And they’re still working for me today:

    Being male means I’ve never had my assertiveness called “aggressive” or been told to smile more in meetings. I can speak up, interrupt occasionally, and show confidence without it being labeled arrogance. I’ve never had to calculate whether my tone might make someone uncomfortable.

    Being white means I probably looked like what hiring managers picture when they think “good fit.” I’ve never been the “token hire”, or wondered if my name got me filtered out before anyone read my qualifications. I’ve never walked into a client meeting and felt eyes scanning me to confirm I belonged there.

    My university diploma opened doors before I proved I deserved to walk through them. That piece of paper signaled “capable” before I’d done anything meaningful. It gave me the benefit of the doubt before having even earned it yet.

    Being straight meant I never had to decide whether to mention a partner at a work event, never calculated whether being honest about my personal life might cost me opportunities. My romantic life has never been a professional risk.

    I speak ‘proper’ Dutch, no regional accent that might code me as “less educated” or “provincial”. That sounds trivial, until you realize how much snap judgment happens in the first thirty seconds of conversation.

    Being born in The Netherlands and having Dutch parents meant no visa anxiety, no bureaucratic nightmares proving I had a right to be there, no extra hoops for every job application. My existence and presence have never been questioned.

    And most of all, I had loving, well-educated parents who provided stability growing up. I could take career risks because I had a safety net. I could fail without it being catastrophic.

    If you’re keeping count and realize you have fewer checkmarks than I do, I want you to know this: the fact that you’ve gotten where you are with more headwinds makes your achievements even more impressive, not less. And if you have all seven like me, maybe some of this is starting to feel uncomfortably familiar.

    What Privilege Actually Does

    Here’s what I didn’t understand when I was younger: privilege isn’t just about the doors that open. It’s mostly about the doors you never see closed.

    It’s not getting the job because you ticked boxes, it’s never being filtered out before the interview upfront. It’s not being handed opportunities, it’s being given the benefit of the doubt when you stumble. And it’s not having everything easy, it’s having the invisible cushion that makes failure less catastrophic.

    The slightly uncomfortable part, now that I’m aware of it? These advantages don’t stop after you get hired. They compound like crazy.

    When I succeeded early in my career, people assumed it was competence. When I made mistakes, they got treated as learning experiences rather than confirmation I didn’t belong. When I spoke up in meetings, people listened. When I negotiated salary, I was seen as confident, not greedy.

    At every step, I got the better interpretation of ambiguous signals. That’s what privilege does: it tips the perception of others in your favor, over and over, in small ways that add up to massive advantages over time.

    The Uncomfortable Question I Have to Ask Myself

    I’m in a position now where I occasionally evaluate others. Think stuff like interviews, team dynamics, and decisions about who gets opportunities.

    And I have to ask myself: When someone feels “right” for a role, is it because they’re actually the best fit? Or is it simply because they remind me of myself?

    When I see someone who’s confident, articulate, and with the “right” background, am I recognizing competence or just familiarity? When someone with a different background or communication style doesn’t immediately “click”, is that a real culture misfit, or just that they don’t mirror my own advantages back at me?

    If I prefer people who “feel right” without examining why that is, I’m just reproducing the same advantages I benefited from. Teams get created that look like the stock photo from the HR handbook, and then we call it “meritocracy” afterwards.

    Privilege and Effort Aren’t Opposites

    Here’s what took me too long to understand as well, especially if realizing your privilege also makes you somewhat uncomfortable: acknowledging privilege doesn’t mean you didn’t work hard. It just means you worked hard while also having a tailwind.

    I did build my career through effort, learning, preparation, and intentional choices. I saved money, negotiated opportunities, and took some risks to get where I am. That’s all real.

    But I also did it from a starting line closer to the finish. I did it with fewer headwinds and more benefit-of-the-doubt. I did it in a context where my advantages were invisible to me, but obvious to everyone who didn’t have them.

    It’s essentially social dynamics meeting quantum theory, because both working hard and having massive advantages can be true at once. Pretending otherwise will just make you blind.

    No Need For Guilt, But A Little Awareness Instead

    Think about a time when someone gave you the benefit of the doubt. Was it because you earned it, or because you looked like what they expected success to look like? It’s not always easy to tell the difference, and that’s exactly the point.

    Privilege isn’t something to feel guilty about. I can’t undo my advantages or give them back, but I can at least be honest about them. This blog is about my money, my emotions, and my actions. All of it real, but all of it also happening in a social context where the odds were often tilted slightly in my favor. 

    You deserve to know that context before reading anything else I write about money. My stories are real, my lessons are hard-won, but some of them also happened on a playing field where I started a little closer to the finish line. That doesn’t invalidate the lessons themselves, but it does affect how you can put them in the context of your own experiences.

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

  • 1. Adopting My Parents’ Money Habits Got Me Debt-Free Through University

    1. Adopting My Parents’ Money Habits Got Me Debt-Free Through University

    Growing up with saving and thoughtful spending as the default helped me graduate debt-free. The real inheritance? A mindset that made financial freedom feel normal.

    If I told you I graduated completely debt-free from university, would you make the same assumption as most? That I either had rich parents, or lived on instant noodles for six years?

    If yes, I hate to disappoint. Both are far from reality, and the real story is more interesting anyway. Because although my parents aren’t wealthy, my lack of student debt can still be primarily attributed to them.

    Why? Because they’d figured out how to handle money thoughtfully at a young age, and had quietly passed that wisdom on to me before I even knew I was learning.

    It had been their lessons around saving and spending that made me unconsciously create a buffer that would last during my studies, and that allowed me to never send them that dreaded “can you please send me some money?” text.

    Where My Parents Got Their Philosophy

    Both my parents grew up in families where money was tight. My mom actually spent years living paycheck to paycheck after leaving home in her late teens, while my dad traveled the world on a shoestring in his twenties. Both learned to stretch their money as far as it would go, and always maintained a buffer for whatever came next.

    By the time my brother and I came along, they’d built something stable. Not wealthy, but frugal and comfortable. There was enough money as long as we didn’t go crazy with it, and that created a calm about it in our household I didn’t appreciate until much later.

    Today, they’re living in a paid-off house with furniture that’s older than I am, and are actively planning their early retirement. Safe to say, watching them strategize that next chapter makes me more than incredibly proud. They built a good life, gave my brother and me a wonderful childhood, and somehow made all of it look easy from the outside.

    Since they’ve always been open about money at home, my earliest money lessons were simply them engaging us in their financial choices. And those lessons started much earlier than I realized, beginning with a summer that taught me money can only be spent once.

    The Summer We Stayed Home

    When I was seven years old, I watched all my friends leave for summer vacation. Beaches, campsites, theme parks, and other adventures I could only dream of.

    We, however, weren’t going anywhere. And that was a massive bummer.

    My parents sat my little brother and me down to explain: we’d just moved houses, meaning money had to be spent to make it livable. Floors, beds, couches, a disputable wagon-wheel table, the whole shebang had to be bought.

    We could have a vacation or we could decorate, but not both. “Money can only be spent once,” they said.

    Even at seven, the math made complete sense. If you can’t be in two places at once yourself, why should money work any differently?

    Looking back, I really appreciate how they handled it. No guilt trip about sacrifices. No lecture about being grateful. Just: here’s the situation, here’s the choice, and here’s why we’re choosing this way.

    They made it feel like we were in it together. And in hindsight, the entire move meant so much was happening every day that I didn’t become bored that whole summer for even a minute. It was, without a doubt, one of the most memorable summers from my childhood.

    What I didn’t realize at the time was that by simply engaging us in their money considerations, they were actively teaching us to save money to use it for things that truly matter, not just everything that seems nice. And eventually, a few years later, they gave me a system to practice those exact same choices myself.

    The €5 Weekly Training Ground

    That ‘system’ can actually be summarized in one simple sentence: In high school, my parents gave me €5 a week in cash to do with as I pleased.

    That’s it. No negotiation, no inflation adjustments, no advances.

    Five euros a week. About enough for two or three cafeteria lunches, or one if I went wild.

    Sounds like nothing, right? I agree, but let me tell you why that rhythm was brilliant.

    Every week, I could make the same choice: spend my allowance now, or save for something bigger later. Because once that €5 was gone, it was gone until Monday. No bailouts, no exceptions.

    Those weekly €5 amounts were small enough that spending mistakes didn’t matter much, but large enough that the choices I made felt very real. Sometimes I’d spend it all before the week ended, but sometimes I could save for over a month and buy something non-edible, like a video game I really wanted. Without realizing it, I was practicing delayed gratification when the stakes were practically zero.

    Larger amounts, like birthday money and small job earnings, directly went into a savings account. And since I didn’t have my own bank card yet, any withdrawal required asking my parents first.

    It wasn’t because they were controlling, but to create just enough friction to slow down the purchase and really make me consider if I actually wanted something. And when I knew what I wanted and could explain it, they never blocked a purchase.

    I still vividly remember my first ‘big’ purchase with my own money: a golden iPod Nano, peak 2000s aesthetic. The money was already there because it had piled up in my savings account. I explained why I wanted it, withdrew the money, and went ahead and bought it.

    I used that thing for years, and it’s probably still one of the best purchases I ever made. And behind my own back, my parents had actively encouraged knowing the difference between wanting something and actually valuing it—and that having savings meant freedom to say yes when something worth it appeared.

    The Bank Card That Came “Too Late”

    At one point, the spending friction got completely removed: I got my own bank card at sixteen, a few weeks into my first job at the local supermarket.

    At the time, I thought that was way too late. Many friends already had received theirs at fourteen. But my parents ignored my protests with that infuriating calm confidence only people who know they’re right can muster. And of course, they were.

    Because without easy access, my money had been simply piling up. iPod purchase aside, the balance just kept growing. So by the time I got the card, my spending habits were already set. Their “delay” had been completely intentional, and it had worked exactly as planned.

    Most colleagues at the supermarket would spend their paychecks within days: scooters, cigarettes, the latest sneakers. I didn’t. Not because I was more disciplined, but because I just didn’t care about that stuff.

    A scooter? Couldn’t be bothered. I already had a bike and since I was a bit of a nerd anyway, definitely not the demographic for looking cool on a Vespa, there was no social pressure to have one either.

    So, what did I actually use that bank card for? Easy: drinks with coworkers after shifts, activities with friends, the occasional video game. Things that actually mattered and gave me a good time.

    I also took genuine pleasure in the experience of building a real buffer, without any urge to immediately spend. That low-stakes €5 training had scaled up to actual money, and the behavior was exactly the same. No specific goal and just occasionally delaying gratification, because bigger numbers now means more options later.

    And what I couldn’t have known, is that my supermarket buffer would carry me a long way through university.

    When The Buffer Became My Safety Net

    I quit the supermarket during my first year of university. By my second year, I’d moved out.

    The buffer from those years of work, supplemented by government study financing, covered rent and expenses. It was big enough that I didn’t have to panic about my money for years. As long as I lived beneath my means, it would last. And that wasn’t a really big deal, the teachings about spending on what truly mattered had become almost automatic by then.

    But let’s be real as well: a buffer from three years of stocking shelves will never pay for six full years of education. In my third year, my declining buffer could grow again due to landing a student board position paying €1,300 to €1,500 per month, an absolute fortune for a student. I saved most of that salary as well, the exact same way I had before at the supermarket.

    That buffer fully carried me through the rest of university, and by the time I graduated my Master’s my account sat close to zero. The result of years of preparation, saving habits, and decent timing all coming together.

    So when my first real job started, I could build from zero instead of negative. No debt, no monthly payments. Just a clean slate, and two very proud parents.

    What My Parents Really Gave Me

    Looking back, every money lesson my parents gave me was built toward the same idea: save money for when something truly important appears, so that you have freedom when opportunities present themselves.

    My parents never told me to “save for university” or “save for emergencies.” They just taught me to save, period. Build a buffer, and trust that when something important comes along, you’d have the freedom to say yes without blinking twice.

    I’ve been fortunate, absolutely. But I also watched plenty of more privileged students owing thousands after graduation. They had similar opportunities, but simply used them differently. The mindset made the difference, and my parents gave me that.

    It’s a mindset that I still stick to today, because by the time I earned real paychecks, saving wasn’t something I had to force. It was just normal. My parents figured it out, and made sure I would too.

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