A heavy, suffocating guilt weighed on me for days. I had done something I had never done before, and the shame sat like a stone in my chest. It wasn’t like me. I didn’t recognize the version of myself capable of it. Every time my wife walked into the room while I worked, I struggled to meet her eyes, terrified of admitting what I had done — especially at a time of year when everyone else seemed to be celebrating, spending freely, and pretending tomorrow didn’t exist.

We’ve always stayed home over Christmas. Leaving chaos to escape chaos never made sense to us. December is a trap if you’re not careful — bargain shopping disguised as wisdom, excess masked as reward. We’ve learned the hard way. And there is a quiet satisfaction in reaching January with money left over, while most people enter what we jokingly call Jany-Worry.

This year’s warning came from a young woman at an ATM. Her friend urged her to withdraw more cash. She shot her a sharp look and said, “Remember, January is three months long.” I smiled — because she was right.

We consider ourselves responsible people. This year was better than the last. I had a good job again. A decent salary. A reason to breathe easier. The year before had been brutal — retrenchment, mental health struggles, nine months of unemployment. Truly hard times. Yet those seasons teach us things comfort never does. Back then, I wasn’t a machine. I wasn’t living on autopilot — commute, work, eat, sleep, repeat. I was present. Raw. Alive.

Another Christmas finds me here again, writing. The thing I love most. Maybe it’s how I cope. Maybe it’s how I stay sane. Maybe I just have something to say. But today, I needed to confess.

We’d just returned from a long run — another way I burn off the restless energy my wife insists I have too much of. As I ran, I thought about what I’d write. My wife had asked earlier, “Why are you so quiet?” I lied and said I was enjoying the scenery. The truth was this story forming, stride by stride.

As the sun climbed over the hills, the guilt loosened its grip. With each step, clarity replaced it. And then the thought arrived — calm, undeniable:

You are investing in yourself.

I smiled. My pace quickened. Cadence climbed — 160, 172, 178, 180. I pushed harder, urgency pulling me home. Behind me, I heard my wife shout, “Hey, what the hell got into you?” I didn’t slow down. I reached home five minutes before she did — which I will mention only once, because she’s fourteen years younger than me, and I enjoy living.

Coffee in hand, story complete, the truth settled in.

All my life, I have put others first. I bought myself the cheapest clothes, shoes, toiletries — so I could spoil everyone else. I drank bad coffee so others could have the best. I know this about myself. I am a people-pleaser.

But I was the one who ended up in a mental health clinic.
I paid for my own treatment.
My salary pays my medical insurance.
No one else carried that cost.
We all know the saying: Your biggest enemies are often those you’ve helped.
It stings because it’s sometimes true.

So no — I have no reason to feel guilty about the money I’ve spent on writing platforms, advertising, and tools. They are priced in dollars. They aren’t cheap. And they are essential. This is how I reach my readers. This is how I speak.

For the first time, I know exactly who I’m writing for.

That revelation alone was worth every cent.

My subscriber base has grown. The emails I receive — the thank yous, the shared stories — are worth more than money. There are many ways to give. This is one of them.

I will invest again. And again.

Because the truth is simple, and it took me far too long to learn:

Invest in yourself. You are worth it.
Because nobody else will.