Broke or Blessed: How Class Shapes the Way We See Ourselves | We Don’t Talk About That by JBE Mindful Pathways
We Don’t Talk About That | JBE Mindful Pathways
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Some wounds don’t show up in medical charts—they show up in the way we flinch at abundance.
In the way we hesitate before wanting something big.
In the way we apologize for needing too much… or anything at all.
We don’t just grow up—we’re trained.
Not always with words, but with glances, silences, and sighs heavy with “we can’t afford that.”
We learn quickly where we fall in the invisible ranking of the world.
Some of us were handed a map to navigate life.
Others were handed a broom and told to earn our space.
And even when we make it—whatever “make it” means—we carry the ache of where we started.
We carry the shame of asking, the guilt of having, the fear of losing.
We carry the quiet question: Do I really deserve this?
We don’t talk about how class becomes a lens we can’t take off.
How it shapes the way we love, the way we speak, the way we sit at tables we never thought we’d be invited to.
This isn’t about jealousy or envy or greed.
It’s about identity.
It’s about grief.
It’s about rewriting the story when you were only ever handed half the pages.
This piece is for that silence.
For that whisper in your chest that says, something’s still not okay, even when the bills are paid.
For the parts of you that are still trying to believe that stability doesn’t have to feel like betrayal.
Let’s talk about it—finally.
Before we go deeper, let’s explore where these lessons first took root.
You learn the rules before you even know you’re learning them.
Don’t take seconds unless someone offers.
Don’t touch the “good” towels.
Don’t ask for name brands—you get what’s on sale.
And whatever you do, don’t tell anyone you’re struggling.
So you carry it.
You carry the hunger, the envy, the longing, the questions.
You carry the way your mom’s face tightened at the grocery store checkout line—the way her smile faltered when coupons or an EBT card came out. Your worth, suddenly weighed by more than just groceries. (Studies even show digital-only coupons systematically disadvantage low-income shoppers.)
You carry the way your dad sighed when the car made a weird sound.
The way holidays felt more like math equations than celebrations—what can we afford, and what can we fake?
Even now, with a paycheck or a business or a little cushion in your account, you still hesitate before spending on yourself.
You still feel the need to explain your choices.
You still hide the little indulgences because somewhere inside, it still feels like stealing joy.
And maybe no one ever said it outright, but you knew:
We don’t dream big here.
We don’t quit jobs without another lined up.
We don’t do therapy.
We survive.
So you did.
But survival is loud.
It hums beneath your skin.
It shows up in relationships—when you stay too long in places that don’t honor you because leaving feels unsafe.
It shows up in your body—tight shoulders, shallow breath, exhaustion that doesn’t match your calendar.
And it shows up in your worth—how you price your work, how you let people treat you, how you explain your existence like it’s on trial.
No one taught you how to stop surviving.
It’s not just absence of instruction—it’s as if the lesson was never allowed to be taught.
But here’s what no one tells you:
Gratitude and grief can live in the same body.
You can be thankful you made it out—and angry that you had to claw your way through.
You can be proud of what you’ve built—and still feel haunted by what you never had.
You can be doing better—and still feel broken in ways you can’t quite name.
That doesn’t make you ungrateful.
It makes you honest.
The Eyes That Follow You
You can feel it before you see it. The pause in conversation. The glance that lingers a second too long. The way the cashier suddenly stiffens when you pull out an EBT card or a stack of coupons. Sometimes it’s subtle, like the lack of a smile when you say “thank you.” Other times, it’s loud—like the shift in tone when someone realizes you aren’t ordering anything yet because you’re waiting for the rest of your party, or because your budget only stretches so far.
In today’s world, money is a costume we’re all expected to wear. If you’re not wearing it right—if your clothes are secondhand, your shoes worn down, your makeup absent, or your jewelry simple—you don’t just risk judgment. You risk being invisible. Or worse, being noticed the wrong way.
And heaven forbid you smile through it. If you’re poor but smiling? They think you’re either in denial, lazy, or lying. If you’re quiet and focused? You must be angry or bitter. There is no winning performance.
These reactions are neither random nor personal—they reflect a broader pattern: class‑based discrimination often steers who gets treated with respect and who gets questioned.
People don’t always say it outright, but it shows up in how you’re seated at a restaurant, how closely you’re watched in a store, or how slowly help comes when you ask. It shows up in who gets offered a sample first, who gets asked if they need help, and who gets ignored entirely.
Even joy becomes suspicious when it lives in someone who doesn’t “look” like they should have it.
The Body, the Bank Account, and the Blame
There is a new kind of discrimination rising quietly, cloaked in the language of self-love and “wellness.” It sounds like motivation but feels like shame. In 2025, if you’re plus-sized and not actively pursuing weight loss, society doesn’t see you as brave or at peace. It sees you as a failure.
Weight has become a new measure of status. With access to injections, pills, gym memberships, and influencer-backed “cleanses” skyrocketing, being overweight isn’t just a personal struggle anymore. It’s a public assumption: if you still look like that, you must not care. Or you must be broke. Or both.
We forget how expensive it is to “care” in the way society demands. Personal trainers, private doctors prescribing trendy medications, weekly wellness smoothies that cost more than dinner—all of it is priced like luxury. But when that luxury becomes the standard, anyone who can’t afford it is left behind.
And here’s the cruel twist: the very systems that led to someone’s health challenges are the same ones judging them for not doing more. That’s the loop. The setup. The rigged performance.
It’s not that people don’t want to take care of themselves. It’s that they’re surviving systems designed to exhaust them. And when your every resource goes to simply getting through the week, there’s no room—or money—left for being “presentable.”
Hidden classism can even show up in grocery aisles—precarity researchers describe how low‑income shoppers are subtly penalized at checkout and online.
This is what they don’t say on wellness posters and gym ads: that looking a certain way has become a silent tax bracket. And if you can’t pay the price? You’re deemed unworthy of respect, empathy, and even care.
The Silent Weight We Carry
We don’t talk about how it feels to live in a world that scans your shoes before it sees your soul.
We don’t talk about the quiet grief of pretending to be okay when a single unexpected bill could unravel everything.
We don’t talk about how surviving becomes a second skin—one you never asked for, but can’t seem to shed.
And yet, so many do survive.
So many build peace from scraps, raise children on prayers and leftovers, walk into rooms with dignity even when the world has measured them small.
But surviving isn’t the dream. Stability is.
Not luxury—dignity.
Not wealth—enoughness.
Enough to breathe, to plan, to rest without guilt. Enough to feel human.
We’re told money doesn’t buy happiness, but the truth is—without it, the weight of just staying afloat can crush the spirit before the day even starts.
And still—we rise.
Still, we show up.
Still, we choose love in a world that often doesn’t love us back.
If you’ve ever had to smile through struggle, wear confidence like armor, or fight the shame of needing help—you are not alone.
Your story is not a burden. It’s a map.
A map others will use to find their own strength.
So tell it. Live it. Stand in it. And know that what you carry is not weakness—it’s sacred.
The kind of sacred this world will one day be forced to reckon with.
If you resonated with this piece, you may find powerful connection in I Was Taught to Swallow Thunder, another story from We Don’t Talk About That.
With grace, grit, and a love that refuses to quit.
Keep showing up—even when it feels like no one’s watching.
Your presence is powerful. Your love is building something they’ll one day thank you for.
From one survivor to another—
With strength and softness,
~ JujuBee Divine Empress
Founder, JBE Mindful Pathways
Wellness Advocate | Writer | Mother | Still Learning, Always Loving
✨ Ready to dive deeper? Explore more eye-opening stories like this in the We Don’t Talk About That collection — where silence ends, and truth begins.
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