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May 24, 2025

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UNCOMFORTABLY COMFORTABLE: The reality behind our perfect lives

By Emma Leaning | 00:01 UTC+8 May 24, 2025 | Print Edition

I won’t pretend I’m poor because I’m not. But at 40 years of age, I’m also not where I thought I’d be. More than that, I have recently relied on parents to help with cash flow. That’s not sexy.

Let me break it down. I have monthly payments that include:

Rent

Groceries

Ayi

Gym membership

Healthcare

Therapy

...

If I sound privileged, it’s because I am. Still, a significant change in circumstance has meant keeping up with outgoings isn’t easy.

I could drop the gym but I’m there as part of a recovery routine. But yes, I could run around Fuxing Park for free. I have an ayi who comes twice a week. I could cut that in half or cut her altogether. I live central and could move. But in better times I wallpapered my apartment and spent a small fortune making this pretty shoebox a home.

With regards to health care, I live with mental health struggles that require meds. The sad truth is insurance companies do distinguish between a broken collarbone and a broken brain or heart. I cannot unfund this, and the same goes for therapy. As for groceries, it would be cheaper if I cooked more and bought locally. I cook a few times a week, then live off takeaways and occasional dinners out.

I never buy clothes, I don’t pamper myself, and nor do I spend without consideration. I am uncomfortably comfortable. And I’m not alone.

Sarah’s had to borrow money from her parents to tide the costs of education fees, living expenses and so on, while Jo has moved back to her parental home having lived alone for over a decade. Steven has borrowed money from friends to help get his business off the ground, and Neil is knee-deep in debt.

For context, I’m talking about middle-aged working professionals. You wouldn’t know it to look, but many of us are scraping by. The thing is we’re scraping by with kids at international schools and cold cuts from Alimentari.

How did we become a generation that appears successful while quietly drowning?

I’ve had a job since I was 14, and I have been financially independent since my 20s. That’s nearly two decades of paying my own way, making my own decisions and handling my own crises. I’ve been broke; I’ve been fortunate; I’ve been somewhere in between. But I’ve never been here, working full time while accepting handouts to cover what have become basic expenses.

But that’s the thing: An ayi and a gym membership are not “basic expenses.” They are expenses I’ve grown used to. The gap between perception and reality is real. We’ve created lives that look enviable from the outside while privately making calculations about what we’re willing to lose.

My mom had me, paid her way through university, became a lawyer, and owned a house before my age. When she was building her career, my grandparents supported her by taking care of me. They picked me up from school and made my dinner. But childcare feels like an appropriate form of family support, while direct financial help feels dirty.

I’ve cringed at stories of adults relying on their parents, and I’ve scoffed at divorcees fighting to maintain a lifestyle after separation. But the moral mathematics I apply to strangers grows complicated when applied to my own life.

Here’s the brutal truth: I could be financially independent tomorrow if I was willing to give up enough. Would doing so make me more respectable? Probably. Would it make me happier? I doubt it.

Perhaps there’s dignity in accepting help when we need it, the sensitivity to take only what’s necessary, and the commitment to regain our footing when we can. This could be nothing more than another turn in the circle of family support. My grandparents helped my mom with childcare, my mom sometimes helps me financially, and one day I will look after her in another way.

Independence isn’t binary. It exists on a spectrum that shifts over time. I am not where I hoped to be, but I am paying for what’s possible, accepting help where needed, and working toward something better.

In the meantime, I’m learning to accept help as part of adulthood. It takes strength and maturity to admit we need a hand. This uncomfortable comfort isn’t a failing of independence. It’s proof we’re grown-up enough to stop pretending we have it all sorted.

That’s a luxury money can’t buy.

Foreign Views


 

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