When I read my mom’s text, my stomach dropped. She said she’d “worked her whole life to give me everything I needed” and now it was her time. I wanted to scream. If that was true, why was I drowning in debt, rent due, and a car payment looming?

I called her. “I’m drowning here, and you’re out there living like a queen,” I said. She replied calmly, “I put my dreams on hold so you’d have opportunities I never had.” When I asked for help with bills, she sighed: “I love you, but handing you money won’t fix this. You need to figure out how you got here.”

Her words stung. “So this is my fault?” I asked. “No,” she said, “this is your responsibility. I’ll help—but not with a bailout. We’ll make a budget, find where you can cut back, and I’ll recommend a financial advisor.”

I resisted at first but agreed. Over the next months, we tracked my spending, cut subscriptions, ate at home, and I picked up a side job. Slowly, my debt shrank.

For the first time, I felt in control. My mom was right: “You’re not a failure. You can change your story.”