The Taste of Fuck You Money

When you grow up poor, Fuck You Money isn’t just rare — it’s unreal. You see people who have it, but it doesn’t feel possible. For most of my life, walking away wasn’t a choice. It was collapse. Quitting a job meant risking everything. You didn’t leave unless another was already lined up — even if the one you had was killing you slowly. And those rare times you did walk out — desperate, impulsive, on fire — were followed by the same free fall: days or weeks of panic until you landed in the next dead end.

Fuck You Money changes that. It’s not just freedom — it’s oxygen. And once you taste it, you crave it.

Two years ago, I got my first hit.

I was stuck in a job that made no sense. Square peg, circle hole — and I kept grabbing bigger hammers, trying to make it fit. I just kept swinging harder. One day, my husband looked at me and said, “Why don’t you quit?” Like that was something people like me ever did.

“We have enough money,” he said.

Maybe we did. But I’d crashed too many times before. So I kept grinding. Forcing. Pretending it still made sense.

Until one day, I broke. I quit — over something stupid. Or at least, that’s how it looked to them.

“You’re quitting over shirts?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said. And it felt incredible. Because it was never about the shirts. It was about months of being dismissed, sidelined, out of place. And for the first time in my life, I could walk away without fear.

And the fallout? It never came. I spent four glorious weeks at home. Then I started a job I’ve actually loved ever since.

Now, I want Fuck You Money for everything — not just work. I want it for friendships. For family. For any situation where staying feels like shrinking. I want the resources and the autonomy to walk away — anytime, for any reason.

Even something as small as a shirt.
Because when you have Fuck You Money, the real cost is staying.