When I graduated from college at 22, the first thing I did was get a credit card.
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I told myself it meant I was independent. That I was finally done living within my parents’ means. In reality, I was chasing a feeling, one I couldn’t quite name yet, but kept trying to buy anyway.
I wanted to feel like I had made it. Like I was enough.
Within two years, I had $20,000 in credit card debt, on top of $16,000 in student loan debt.
I had no savings
At the time, I was a professional dancer, living paycheck to paycheck, with no savings and still living in my parents’ house. From the outside, everything looked fine. I was doing what I loved. I was working. I was “figuring it out.”
But inside, I was terrified.
I would wake up in the middle of the night with panic attacks, my mind racing through numbers I didn’t want to look at during the day. Minimum payments. Interest rates. Due dates. I was barely keeping up, and deep down, I was afraid I never would.
Courtesy of Diana Gleason
Debt wasn’t just a financial problem; it became an emotional one. And then I met Matt, the man who is now my husband.
I hid my debt from the man I was about to marry
Falling in love should have felt exciting and hopeful. Instead, it added a new layer of fear. Because alongside all the good, there was one thought I couldn’t shake — what if he finds out about my debt and decides I’m not someone he wants to marry?
I wasn’t just worried about the money. I was worried about what it meant about me.
I carried so much shame around my financial situation that I convinced myself I needed to fix it before I told the truth. That I had to “get it together” first before I could be honest.
But that mindset only kept me stuck longer.
The more I avoided it, the bigger it felt. The heavier it became. And eventually, I realized I couldn’t build a future with someone while actively hiding something that would directly affect it.
So I told him.
His reaction was nothing as I expected
I had rehearsed the conversation over and over in my head. In every version, it ended in disappointment or worse. I expected judgment. I expected doubt.
What I got instead was something I wasn’t prepared for: compassion.
Matt didn’t panic. He didn’t shame me. He didn’t walk away. He listened, and then he helped me make a plan. That moment changed everything.
Not because the debt disappeared overnight, it didn’t. But because I stopped carrying it alone. And for the first time, I felt a shift from avoidance to ownership.
I entered a debt consolidation program and committed to paying everything off. It wasn’t quick or easy, but it was the first time I was actively facing my finances instead of running from them.
Looking back, I can see that the hardest part wasn’t the numbers; it was the silence.
Telling the truth didn’t make me weaker. It made me accountable. It made me feel supported. It made change possible.
Ironically, that experience led me somewhere I never expected. I became obsessed with understanding money, not from a place of fear anymore, but from a place of empowerment.
Now I help other business owners face their finances
I wanted to know how it worked, how to manage it, and how to make better decisions.
Today, I own and operate DG Accounting Agency, a bookkeeping firm that helps business owners take control of their finances, many of whom are dealing with their own version of money shame and avoidance.
And I see it all the time: smart, capable women who think they need to “figure it out first” before they’re allowed to be honest. They don’t.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: financial transparency is non-negotiable if you’re going to build a life with someone. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary.
You can’t build something real on top of something hidden.
And you don’t need to have a perfect plan before you tell the truth. In fact, the moment you say the number out loud, that’s when the plan can finally begin.
For me, that moment didn’t just change my relationship. It changed the entire trajectory of my life.
