Chapter 6: Money, Things and the Fear of Not Having Enough

A Calendar Full of Empty Days

Lucía is thirty-six and works as a hairdresser. She rents a chair in a small salon, which means she is paid for each customer she sees. On busy weeks, her calendar is full and she goes home tired but happy. On quiet weeks, the calendar has gaps, and every gap feels like a small hole in the floor.

This month is quiet. Two regular customers have moved away, and the weather has been bad, so fewer people are coming in. Lucía sits in the back room between appointments, adding up numbers on a piece of paper. Rent for the chair. Rent for her flat. Food. The electricity bill. A present for her nephew's birthday. She adds them up again, as if the numbers might change the second time.

What frightens her is not this month alone. It is the feeling underneath it, a feeling she has carried for years. What if there is never enough? What if she always lives one quiet month away from trouble? What if she gets ill and cannot work at all? She sees her older friends who have houses and savings and wonders how they did it. She sees advertisements for things she cannot afford and feels a small sting each time.

Lucía is careful with money, and she works hard. Yet her worry does not seem to listen to her care or her effort. It follows her home, sits with her at dinner and wakes her early in the morning. Many people know this feeling. Money worry is one of the most common kinds of worry in the world, and it touches people with very different incomes. Some people who have very little feel it. So do many people who, from the outside, seem to have plenty.

Before going further, one practical point. If you need practical help with money, such as how to budget, save or invest, there are qualified advisers and, in many places, free public advice services. What the Stoics can offer is help with the worry that surrounds money: the fear, the comparison and the feeling that enough is never enough.

Money as a Preferred Thing

People sometimes imagine that the Stoics hated money and wanted everyone to be poor. That is not true. Seneca was one of the richest men of his time. Marcus Aurelius was an emperor. Epictetus was poor for most of his life. All three agreed on something more subtle than "money is bad".

The Stoics divided the world into three kinds of things. Some things are truly good: wisdom, justice, courage and self-control, the qualities of a good character. Some things are truly bad: the opposites of those qualities. And a very large group of things are neither good nor bad in themselves. The Stoics called these indifferents. Health, money, reputation, comfort and even life itself belong to this group.

"Indifferent" does not mean that you should not care about these things at all. The Stoics said that some indifferents are preferred. It is natural and sensible to prefer health to illness, enough money to poverty, and a home to no home. You can work for these things, plan for them and be glad when you have them. What the Stoics denied is that they decide whether your life is good. A rich person can live badly, and a poor person can live well. Money can be used for good or for harm. It is the person who uses it who makes it good or bad.

This idea might seem distant from Lucía's piece of paper in the back room. But it touches the deepest part of her worry. When she fears that there will never be enough, part of that fear is practical: she needs to pay her rent. But part of it is something else. It is a feeling that her worth, her safety and her future all depend on the numbers. The Stoic view gently separates those things. Money matters, and she should take sensible care of it. But her worth as a person is not written on that piece of paper.

Epictetus, who had lived as an enslaved man with no possessions of his own, put it simply. Our possessions belong to the list of things that are not fully up to us (Epictetus, Enchiridion 1). We can work, save and spend carefully. But markets change, customers move away, prices rise and accidents happen. If our peace depends entirely on money, then our peace is always in the hands of forces we cannot control.

Who Is Truly Poor?

In one of his first letters to Lucilius, Seneca offers a short line that has been repeated for centuries. In my own words: the poor person is not the one who has too little, but the one who always wants more (Seneca, Letters 2). He goes on to ask what the right limit of wealth is, and answers: first, to have what is necessary, and second, to have what is enough.

Seneca was not saying that real poverty is fine or that hungry people should simply want less. He wrote these words to a friend who was comfortable, and he was speaking about a particular kind of unhappiness: the endless chase for more. A person who always wants more will never feel safe, however much they have. There will always be a bigger house, a better car, a larger savings account and someone who has more. For such a person, the worry about money never ends, because the goal keeps moving.

The key word in Seneca's answer is "enough". Many of us have never asked ourselves what enough would look like. We know what we fear, and we know what we would like, but we have not drawn a line in between. Without that line, every gap in the calendar feels like danger, and every advertisement feels like a judgment.

Seneca also wrote about the burden of having many things. In one of his essays, he reflected that the more a person owns, the more there is for fortune to take away, and the more there is to guard and to worry about (Seneca, On Tranquility of Mind 8). Possessions bring comfort, but they also bring care. This is not a reason to own nothing. It is a reason to notice the cost of each new thing, including the quiet cost of worry.

Epictetus added an image that many readers find both strange and helpful. Never say about anything, "I have lost it," he wrote. Say instead, "I have given it back." When something is taken from you, it has been returned to where it came from. While you have it, he says, take care of it as something that is not fully yours, the way travellers take care of a room at an inn (Epictetus, Enchiridion 11). A traveller enjoys the room, keeps it clean and is grateful for it. But the traveller does not panic when it is time to leave, because the room was never theirs forever.

The Day the Car Broke Down

Esther is forty and lives with her husband and two children. They have a small budget, carefully planned. Every month there is a little left over, which they put aside. Then, one cold morning in winter, their car would not start. The mechanic said that the repair would be expensive, close to everything they had saved over the past year.

Esther's first feeling was panic. Her whole body went cold, more than the weather could explain. She thought of all the months of saving, now gone in a single morning. She thought of the next unexpected cost, and the one after that. "We can never get ahead," she said to her husband. "Every time we save something, it is taken away."

That evening, after the children were asleep, Esther found herself thinking about Epictetus' line about the inn. The savings had been theirs for a while, and now they had gone to repair the car. In a sense, they had been "given back". She did not find this comforting at first. It seemed too easy. But then she noticed something. The savings had done exactly what savings are for. They had protected the family from a crisis. Without them, the broken car would have meant debt or no car at all. The money had not been lost. It had been used.

Esther and her husband also sorted the situation into two columns. Not up to them: the car breaking down, the price of the repair, the timing. Up to them: deciding whether to repair or replace, asking a second mechanic for a price, adjusting the budget for a few months and starting to save again. When they looked at the second column, Esther felt her panic change into something more like determination. It was still a hard month. But it was no longer a disaster. It was a problem with a plan.

Later, Esther said that the most important change was in one sentence. Instead of "We can never get ahead," she began to say, "This is what the saving was for." The facts were the same. Her judgment about them had changed, and with it, her feeling.

She also noticed how quickly her mind had jumped from one broken car to a whole life of failure. "We can never get ahead" was not a description of a single morning. It was a story about every year to come. Once she saw that, she could set the story aside and deal with the morning.

Malik and the Newest Phone

Malik is twenty-two and works in a call centre while he studies in the evenings. He earns a modest wage, and most of it is spent on rent, food and his course. Yet he finds himself thinking about money all the time, and not mostly about bills. He thinks about the things other people have. His friends post pictures of new phones, new trainers and holidays. Every time a new phone is released, he feels a tight pull inside, as if his own phone has suddenly become old and embarrassing.

Malik's worry is a kind of fear of falling behind. He worries that he looks poor next to his friends. He worries that if he does not keep up, he will be left out. Twice he has bought something expensive with money he needed for other things, and both times the good feeling lasted only a few days before the worry returned, along with a new worry about the money he had spent.

Seneca's line about wanting more fits Malik closely. Malik is not poor because his phone is two years old. It works perfectly well. He feels poor because the goal keeps moving. Each time he reaches it, a new goal appears. As Seneca saw, a person in this situation can never feel safe, because safety is always one purchase away.

Malik tried a small experiment after reading about Seneca's question of "enough". He wrote down what he actually needed from a phone: calls, messages, his course materials, maps and music. His current phone did all of these things. Then he wrote down what he really wanted from his friends: to be included, to laugh together and to be respected. None of those things depended on his phone. He realized that his worry had joined two separate wishes together, the wish for things and the wish to belong, and that the second wish was the one that truly mattered.

He also noticed that spending less time looking at other people's pictures made the pull weaker. He did not stop using the internet, but he chose more carefully what he looked at, especially late at night. The new phones kept coming out. But the tight feeling inside became quieter, because he had drawn his own line of enough and was no longer measuring his life against someone else's screen.

Luis and Beatriz and the Small Garden

Luis and Beatriz are in their seventies. They live on a small pension in a modest flat with a balcony full of plants. They have never been wealthy. When they were younger, money worry was a constant guest in their home. They worried about school costs for their children, about rent, about what would happen if one of them lost a job.

Now, they say, they worry much less, though their income is smaller than it was when they were working. When their grandchildren ask them how this can be, Beatriz has a simple answer. "We decided what was enough," she says. "And then we stopped looking past it."

Their idea of enough is clear. A warm home. Good, simple food. Money for their medicine and for the bus. A small amount to give to their grandchildren on birthdays. Seeds for the balcony in spring. A little set aside for emergencies. When they have these things, they consider themselves comfortable. They do not compare their flat with their friends' houses, and they do not feel that something is missing when they see advertisements for cruises or new furniture.

Luis adds something important. "It is not that we do not want nice things," he says. "If someone gave us a holiday, we would go happily. But we do not let our happiness wait for it." This is close to the Stoic idea of preferred indifferents. A holiday would be pleasant and welcome. It is preferred. But it is not necessary for a good life, so its absence is not a cause for worry.

Their story is not a lesson that everyone should live on very little. Every life is different, and many people face real hardship that no attitude can solve. It is a lesson about the line of enough. Once that line is drawn, worry has a border. Without it, worry has no end.

There is one more thing in their story worth noticing. Luis and Beatriz spend much of their time on things that cost almost nothing. They tend their plants, walk in the park, play cards with neighbours and help at a community kitchen once a week. These activities fill their days with meaning, and none of them depends on money. When a large part of life rests on things that cannot be bought, the fear of not having enough money loses some of its power, because so much of what matters is already safe.

Practical Steps: Drawing the Line of Enough

The first step is to separate practical planning from worry. Practical planning has a time, a place and an end. It might mean sitting down once a month with your numbers, in daylight, and asking what needs to be paid, what can be changed and whether you need help. If you do need help, it is wise to talk to a qualified adviser or a public advice service rather than struggling alone. Worry, on the other hand, has no time, place or end. When money thoughts come at midnight, you can remind yourself: "I will look at this properly at my planning time."

The second step is to ask Seneca's question: what would be enough? Write down what you truly need for a safe and decent life, and what would make you feel comfortable. Be honest and specific. You may find that your list of needs is shorter than your worry suggested. You may also find that some of the things you worry about missing were never on the list at all.

The third step is to notice comparison. When you feel the sting of seeing what others have, ask yourself what you are actually wanting. Is it the thing itself, or something underneath it, such as respect, belonging, security or rest? Very often, the deeper wish can be met in other ways, ways that cost little or nothing.

The fourth step is to practise Epictetus' habit of the inn. Look at one thing you own and value, and say to yourself: "This is mine for now. I will take good care of it, and I will be grateful for it while I have it." This is not a way of expecting to lose everything. It is a way of loosening the tight grip that turns ownership into fear.

The fifth step is to remember what money cannot touch. Your honesty, your kindness, your courage and your effort do not rise and fall with your bank balance. On a quiet week, Lucía is just as good a hairdresser and just as good a person as on a busy one. Reminding yourself of this does not pay the rent. But it keeps your sense of your own worth from being tied to numbers that are not fully up to you.

Money problems can bring very heavy stress, and stress that lasts a long time can affect sleep, health and relationships. If money worry is overwhelming you, please do not carry it alone. Talk to someone you trust, seek practical advice from a qualified source and, if the worry is affecting your health or your mind, talk to a doctor or another qualified professional.

Generosity as a Remedy for Fear

One Stoic idea about money is often overlooked: generosity. Seneca wrote a whole long work about giving and receiving kindness, called On Benefits. In it, he treats the giving of help, gifts and favours as one of the main ties that hold human society together. A gift, for Seneca, is valuable less for what is given than for the goodwill with which it is given.

This matters for money worry in a surprising way. Fear of not having enough tends to make us close our hands. We hold tightly to what we have and see others as competitors. Yet many people find that giving something, even something small, loosens that grip. When we share a meal, help a neighbour, give a little time or pass on something we no longer need, we experience ourselves as people who have enough to give. That experience can be a quiet answer to the fear that whispers, "There will never be enough."

Generosity does not have to involve money. Luis and Beatriz give their time at the community kitchen. Lucía sometimes cuts her elderly neighbour's hair for free. Esther's family takes turns driving a neighbour's child to school, now that their car is repaired. These acts cost little, but they connect people, and connection is one of the things that make hard times easier to bear.

A word of balance is needed. No one should give away what they need for themselves or their family, and no one should feel guilty for being unable to give. The point is not obligation. It is that a small, freely chosen act of giving can remind a worried mind that it is part of a community, not alone against the world.

A Short Exercise: The Enough List and the Inn Walk

There are two parts to this exercise. Together they take about half an hour, and you may want to repeat them a few times a year.

The first part is the enough list. Take a page and divide it into three sections. In the first, write what you need for a safe and decent life: shelter, food, warmth, the basic costs of work and health, and a small reserve for emergencies if that is possible for you. In the second section, write what would make you feel comfortable, beyond the basics: perhaps a few small pleasures, a hobby, the ability to give a gift now and then. In the third section, write the things you sometimes want but that are not needed for either safety or comfort: the newest version of something, a larger home, the things you see others enjoying.

Look at the three sections calmly. You are not judging yourself. Wanting things in the third section is human, and there is nothing wrong with enjoying them if they come. The purpose is to see clearly where your line of enough lies, as Seneca suggested. Next time money worry rises, ask which section it is about. Worry about the first section is serious and deserves practical planning and, if needed, practical help. Worry about the third section can often be gently set down.

The second part is the inn walk, based on Epictetus' image of the traveller's room. Walk slowly through your home. Stop in front of a few things you value: a chair, a book, a photograph, a cooking pot, a plant. For each one, say quietly, "This is with me for now. I am glad of it, and I will take care of it." Notice how this feels. Some people find it surprisingly peaceful. Things stop being objects to guard and become companions to enjoy.

End the walk by naming three things in your life that no amount of money could buy or take away: a friendship, a skill, a memory, your own kindness. Write them at the bottom of your enough list. They are a reminder that the most important parts of a life are not found on a bank statement.

Lucía did this exercise one quiet afternoon in the back room of the salon. Her first section was shorter than she expected, and most months she was able to cover it. Her third section was longer than she expected, and she laughed at some of it. At the bottom she wrote: "My hands, my customers who come back, my sister." She pinned the page inside her cupboard door, where she sees it every morning.

Chapter Summary

The Stoics did not despise money. They called it a preferred indifferent: something it is sensible to want and to take care of, but not something that decides whether a life is good. Seneca taught that the poor person is the one who always wants more, and that the right limit of wealth is first what is necessary and then what is enough (Letters 2). Epictetus advised us to say "I have given it back" rather than "I have lost it", and to treat our possessions like a traveller's room at an inn (Enchiridion 11).

In practice, this means keeping practical planning separate from worry, drawing a clear line of enough, noticing the deeper wishes behind comparison and remembering that our character does not depend on our income. Lucía with her quiet calendar, Esther with the broken car, Malik with the newest phone and Luis and Beatriz on their balcony all show that money worry becomes smaller when we decide what enough means.

In the next chapter, we turn from possessions to something even harder to hold: the opinions of other people, and our fear of what they will think of us.