Money Is My Survival Instinct

By Trinity Barnette

People see the way I chase money and assume it’s vanity. That I’m materialistic. That I want too much.

But they don’t see what it’s covering up.

They don’t see the way I calculate survival down to the dollar. The way I spiral when my school bill is due or the Apple bill hits at the wrong time. They don’t know what it’s like to grow up in chaos—where money wasn’t just money, it was the difference between calm and crisis. Between dinner and silence. Between your parent being present, or broken, or gone.

For some people, money is a tool.

For me, it’s trauma management.

It’s a security system. A coping mechanism. A way to stop the anxiety from swallowing me whole.

I don’t hustle for fun.

I hustle because the alternative is fear.

I didn’t grow up learning that money was stable.

I learned that it disappeared. That it started fights. That it made people cry. That it made people disappear.

I learned to read tension in bank statements. I learned what it meant when grown-ups whispered. When the fridge stayed empty. When the lights didn’t come back on.

My nervous system remembers every eviction notice, every overdraft, every time we needed help but couldn’t ask.

And now? I equate financial instability with emotional collapse.

Psychologists call this financial trauma—a survival response to growing up in chronic economic insecurity.

But for me, it’s not a theory. It’s my muscle memory. It’s in my chest. It’s in my sleep. It’s in the shame that kicks in every time I buy something for myself, then immediately feel like I’ve made a mistake.

’m not just afraid of being broke.

I’m afraid of going back.

Back to powerlessness. Back to chaos. Back to the version of me who had to pretend she wasn’t scared while watching the world crumble around her.

When I started making money—real money—I felt like I had finally outsmarted my fear.

OnlyFans made me feel powerful. Instagram modeling gave me influence. For a while, my body became my currency, and I spent it like a shield.

But I didn’t feel protected.

I felt purchased.

Because the moment I stopped posting, the moment I slowed down or got tired or wanted to disappear from the internet—so did the money. And the panic came right back.

I realized I didn’t feel free—I felt owned.

Not by a man. Not by a contract.

But by my own fear of losing what I had built.

I’ve tied my entire sense of safety to the number in my account.

And when it drops, so does my sense of self-worth.

It’s exhausting to feel like you’re never allowed to stop.

To feel like rest is only for the rich.

To feel like you don’t deserve a break unless it’s earned, bought, or justified with receipts.

And yeah, I do have expensive taste. I like luxury. I like looking like money because, deep down, I’ve always believed that maybe if I looked rich, I’d start to feel safe.

But the truth is?

I’m tired of needing money this bad.

I’m tired of survival mode being my baseline.

I’m tired of my brain treating every unpaid bill like an emotional emergency.

I want to be wealthy, yes. But more than that—I want to feel safe even when I’m not.

I want to believe I’m still valuable when I’m resting.

I want to exist without fear riding in the passenger seat of every decision.

Money is still my instinct.

But slowly, I’m learning how to build safety in places that don’t have a price tag.

Peace. Purpose. Power. Those are mine, too.