Financial Trauma and It’s Impact on Flying for Bicycle Touring

An adapted (unpublished) Instagram diary entry from December 13th, 2023, from my New Zealand Bike tour.

I leave for a 36+ hour flight to New Zealand in less than 24 hours. I fly from Baltimore -> Atlanta, Atlanta -> LAX, LAX -> San Francisco, San Francisco -> Fiji, Fiji -> Christchurch, NZ. My first two flights are with Spirit Airlines, my third with JetBlue, and my last two with Fiji Airways. I’ve felt sick to my stomach all day worrying about baggage fees, missed connecting flights, and other terrifying theories as to what could go wrong and prevent me from landing in Christchurch with all of my belongings on December 14th. I booked the cheapest flight I could.

I grew up in a family where money has always been a concern, and from a young age, I learned that I have to be frugal in every way possible. My mother supported the financial burden of me and my brother after my parents divorced, and even though my dad did earn some income throughout middle school and high school, his work was never consistent. I grew up in a dichotomy of two homes: one that, was modest but presented very well, and another that was crumbling before my very eyes. I got my first job at the age of 13 and used that money to buy ice cream with my friends on the weekend after school- it was the gateway to enjoy normal childhood activities. I worked every summer and winter break from middle school to high school before I started working year round, and the money I earned translated into the clothing I worse to school, the large canvases and oil paints I needed for AP art class. If I asked to go to the doctor for a health condition I was experiencing, I was often told I wasn’t that sick, or that I should just relax an bit and it would get better. I remember being chewed out by my mother for going to physical therapy in college for my strained rotator cuff injury. I remember being chastised for asking my mom for $10 to see a movie with friends when I was 15 years old. I remember my father proudly verbalizing the calculation of calories per dollar when he would get an occasional burger at McDonalds, proudly declaring that he was getting more bang for his buck when he got the higher calorie burger. I remember my father’s car frequently breaking down and how he, a few times, came to pick me up from school an hour late on a bike that he attached a motor on, where I was clinging on for my dear life, because affording a car that did work was out of the question. I remember growing up in a household where nothing could be thrown out- not a singular pasta strand could go to waste, not a single apple could be thrown out, no matter how mealy it was. I grew up in a home where I was admonished for wanting to go to a private university for college instead of stay in state, but when my tuition ended up being cheaper than my brother’s at UMD, the cost of my education would still be thrown back in my face. I grew up in a home where, even when I was anorexic and starving myself to 117lbs at the age of 16, I knew that I could not get professional help for my condition for that would have been a selfish financial expectancy from my mother (who realistically would have had to brunt the whole burden), and thus, I forced myself to get better, silently fighting with all my might against the number one killer of mental illnesses in the world.

I grew up knowing the severity of life’s cost from too young an age.

I don’t entirely blame my parents for their actions. We live in a capitalistic hellbound society where real wages has hardly increased in decades yet the cost of living has skyrocketed. College tuition, groceries, medicine, rent. Our wealth is hoarded in the hands of a few powerful billionaires and with each successive generation, less wealth is owned. We live in an ever burgeoning society that looks more and more like the fate of Jurgis Rudkus. We see messages of the younger generations being told they need to stop spending money on over-priced lattes and Doordash, yet even if we did, the extra $100 we might save a month from that won’t ever amount to the $30k needed for a home down payment these days or account for predatory interest rates for college loans. People joke that dogs and pets are the new children for Millenials, and that plants are the new children for Gen Z. There’s a reason why people are having less children and owning fewer homes- we can’t afford to live.

And so here I am, living with the financial trauma of the American Dream, having booked what will probably be a regrettable flight and experience as I go on a bicycle tour across New Zealand. My friend and I have different flights (because for whatever reason mine was a couple hundred dollars cheaper) but I now realize that those couple hundred dollars saved will turn into an extra 3 hours at the airport for both of us, the fear of baggage fees across multiple airlines and of baggage lost, and the emotional stress of not traveling together as we literally cross the entire world to embark on a tour across New Zealand. Paying a bit extra to feel supported or less stressed was not worth the money in the family I grew up in.

I purchased my flight because of my never ending financial guilt. I purchased this flight because of the economic nightmare presented to Generation Z in the United States of America.

As I write this piece, I am packing for my flight. I have just taken an edible to calm down the deep anxiety I feel about my flight, and to hopefully “get the munchies” so I don’t feel nauseous anymore. I am scared and I am stressed, and over what? Over the potential $100 I saved for booking a longer and more chaotic flight with poorly rated airlines while my friend flies on a 3 hour faster, probably a couple hundred dollar more expensive airline, that includes a piece of free luggage. I really should have just booked the same flight as them.

We leave at 4AM tomorrow morning. I am petrified.