Once the card came through, my friend put me in touch with the businessowner, who directed me to purchase thousands of dollars worth of wireless headphones. This happened month after month, and every time, he paid me back in cash. But instead of paying off the card immediately, I paid the minimums and held on to most of it — I needed it for rent, for food, for all of our living expenses.

That stash made me feel like I had a lot of money. My card balance was just a number on a screen that I figured I’d pay off in bits and pieces. Why worry about the entire balance today when I could keep doing minimums? Rena and I used the cash to pay for what we needed, and it was enough to let us eat out and live nicely. I didn’t think down the line. I had money now, money that felt free. And I was making money selling points, wasn’t I?

This became my cycle: Open a new card, get the bonus offer, earn points, sell them. Sure, I made something in points, but what I didn’t realize (or, to be perfectly honest, pay much attention to) was that in the long term, what I paid in interest was more than double that.

Much later, I’d learn the system is built to trap you. Credit card companies spend so much on marketing and complex rewards, all to make users overspend. The companies never really lose money, because unpaid customer balances are tax write-offs.

Meanwhile, I was living the good life. In Israel, when you wear a decent suit and pull out a Platinum card, they think you’re a rich guy. They start giving you service, they offer you the nicer menu — and soon enough, I started thinking of myself that way. And it all felt like part of the dream of early married life. A dream that soon included an impending baby.

“Babies,” we learned at the ultrasound appointment.

We were giddy, feeling blessed. But it was also big news, a lot for Rena. It was time for the familiarity of home, for a system we knew, better jobs, real life. We were leaving Israel sooner than we wanted to, but for the best possible reasons. Plural.

We moved back to Lakewood and quickly saw that it had changed in the time we were away. It wasn’t the Lakewood I’d grown up in, and the people there were living a lot more nicely than in Jerusalem. Parking lots were packed with late-model cars, high-end stores with luxury products, groceries with options galore. This was the life, and everyone was in it, whether you lived in a basement apartment or you owned your house.

I got a job in real estate mortgages, which supposedly offered good earning potential in the long run. Meanwhile, I wasn’t yet coming home with earnings, but I still had my trusty card.

When our twin boys were born, I held those perfect babies for the first time. As I looked down at their tiny features and feathery hair, I felt a fierce, primal love.  I was their father. I’d do anything for them.

But love and good intentions don’t translate into smart finances.

T

he babies came home, and our expenses soared. We needed a night nurse; we needed baby furniture and a stroller. And in a town full of boutique stores, it seemed like everyone was dressed to the nines, even the tiniest tots. It was another of the standards we had to match. Could we afford it?

I didn’t allow myself to contemplate the question. We had to keep up with the Cohens, for ourselves and our kids. So I swiped and grinned and squelched the doubt, though sometimes, walking past our gleaming cars up the walkway to our rental home, I’d feel sick. Living at this standard, would we ever be able to get out of the credit card rut? Would we ever own our own cars, a home?

By now, I was relying on credit cards to cover the expenses of a family of four. That first year in mortgages, I made nothing. It was commission-based work, meaning money came only when I closed a deal. I was playing the long game at work, but we had so many immediate expenses, I found myself using seven, then eight, then ten credit cards. I never missed a payment, but I paid only the minimums, and the balances were piling up.

Come midwinter break, we vacationed in Florida, like everyone else. The trip cost me $7,000, but I didn’t think it was over the top. I knew others were spending that much on their Airbnb alone.

This isn’t crazy spending, I’d say to the tired voice inside. Stop worrying, we’ll get by like everyone else.

For Shabbos I bought meats and fine wine — nothing outlandish, but it still cost more than I could afford. At lunchtime I’d get something from a café, a sandwich, a Danish, spending about $30 a day.

Just like the others, I told myself.

The twins grew, and we had more children, and after about seven years, things got tight. At work, I was making commissions here and there, I was growing in the business — but swallowing the money as fast as I made it. And the credit card debt kept accruing because of the constant interest. But I couldn’t pay more than the minimum payments, 12 of them by now, and there seemed no way out.

Soon even those minimums became a struggle. I remember a vacation in Orlando, sitting poolside, staring at my phone, shuffling money from card to card, calculating which was due, which deadline was more imminent. Anxiety hammered inside me. I was twitchy and nervous with my family. Vacation, my foot.

It’s too much. You can’t afford this.

But everyone does it. Everyone does. Everyone does.

I knew something had to change, and when we got back, I started listening to money management expert Dave Ramsey’s live show.

People would call in: “Hey, Dave, I’m Joe. I’m in debt, what can I do?”

He’d run through his spiel: “So, Joe, how much do you make? How much do you spend in a year?

“You don’t know?

“How about in a month? A day?”

Joe named an amount that made Dave say, “C’mon, that’s stupid.”

People laughed, but it wasn’t funny. Then he laid it out: Cut spending, track every dollar, live below your means. Simple math. No magic. No excuses.

I could’ve been another Joe. I had nothing in the bank, two leased cars, credit limits that were close to being maxed, and no way of paying all the minimums anymore.

I missed one payment and then another — and soon, some of my cards weren’t working. I was busy with a large deal, but the commission I was hoping for was a few months away. Months. And I needed money now — me, my wife, and four kids.

“We can’t do that,” I told Rena one night when she was about to place a large clothing order. “We don’t have the money right now.”

She was shocked. We’d lived large for years.

She hadn’t had an inkling until now that we were in financial distress and it shook her trust. And that undid me.

“I’m gonna… I’ll have to do something,” I said.

I signed up as a driver with a local Jewish taxi company after work hours. For months, we lived fare to fare. I’d make $20 on a couple of local trips, and then I’d go to the grocery to buy essentials.

We were down to basics — bread or pasta for supper, when we used to have steaks — and I had no life. I’d stay out late, taxiing people around, and taking on any other odd jobs I could find. I barely saw the family I was working so hard for, but I had to keep going.

We were wading through a dark period that felt endless, barely surviving, but it was Rena who held out hope that things would get better. After the initial shock and shame, she came through. She believed in me when I didn’t. “This is temporary,” she’d tell me. “We’ll get our life back.”

And she had it hard. I used to be a hands-on dad, but now I was almost never around. Sundays the kids were home, but I was out all day, and would come home very late with little to show for it.

For the first time ever, I spent only money I was earning, money I could see coming and going. Swiping a credit card is easy. Real bills in hand rewired my brain: I had to think, calculate, and prioritize.

F

inally, a big work deal paid off.

I didn’t know what to cover first. The minimum payments, or the debt? Was I just putting more money into the cards so I could start the game again?

I knew I couldn’t do credit cards again. They made me pursue a lifestyle I couldn’t really afford, messing with my brain and giving me things in the now that I’d have to pay for dearly later. And I knew I hadn’t gotten here from doing nothing. I’d felt sick from many of my choices, but I had made them anyway. Just to be normal?

“Stupid,” I heard Ramsey say.

So what if I wouldn’t be normal? Normal was a facade, anyway. I was my own person, with my own journey. I was finally going to make choices my way.

I’m in for the long haul, Ramsey, I said to myself out loud. No credit cards, if that’s what it took.

I spoke with Rena and was relieved to see that she was with me in making real, hardcore changes. She believed we’d get back on our feet, but understood that we had to be practical and careful to make that happen.

The truth is, the abrupt fall had left its mark on her. She found it hard to spend now. “Do we really have money on the card?” she’d ask, then ask again, before buying anything.

Now, after the large commission I’d earned, we technically had some money — but we were determined to live simply.

We decided there would be no more waste. Leftovers didn’t have to be thrown out; they could be served again or repurposed. Lunch could be a sandwich from home. Meat was for Shabbos. More food could be homemade.

It was a complete change of mindset — realizing that saying no was saying yes: yes to saving and a sustainable lifestyle. How had I seen that as deprivation?

My sister had gotten a new car, and her old one was sitting idle, so I gave up my lease and borrowed her car. It was more than a decade old, dented, but worked just fine. Inside, I saw my 13-year-old self in the rearview mirror, scowling, protesting, ashamed. I felt bad for him. But I was 30 years old now, I reminded myself. I was making my own choices and paying for them. Take that, yeshivah bochur; it’s the best feeling. We drove off together.

All the while, as we were putting these changes into motion at home, things were really picking up at work. I found myself closing deal after deal. It was like I’d gotten to first base by doing my part to clear up my messes, and Hashem was sending me on further.

Within a few months, we were clear of debt. Even better, we could start saving, because we’d cut our spending in half.

I’m not saying it wasn’t hard. I rode around in my dorky car and felt the social pressure. I’ve been there, I’d think as I parked next to the gleamers. And you can look at me however you want, but I’m not in debt anymore — unlike a lot of you guys with the nice cars.

Once I had gotten over those first big hurdles, stopped using the cards, and made those lifestyle changes, I started to feel like I could breathe. I realized I’d spent years spending as if I were rich and comfortable, when I never really was. I’d been taking what wasn’t mine. That stretch of owning up to who I was, what I had, and living within my means — it was amazing.

If I look back at how I got so deeply into debt, I can point to any number of things. There’s something in our culture that makes us feel like we can have everything, that money comes easy. I didn’t know that it could take three or five or seven years to build a career. I didn’t know that a credit card can be misused like a bottle or drugs.

Here’s what I know today: Change can start only when you tell yourself the truth about where you’re at. We still spend a lot; a family of six needs a lot. But now it’s mostly, please G-d, intentional, and not a response to peer pressure. I’m at peace, not only because there’s money in the bank, but because I’m living honestly.

The other day, I met someone I hadn’t seen in a while.

“You look good,” he said.

He didn’t mean my suit, which wasn’t anything to compliment. He meant me.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1103)