I stopped making credit card payments for 2 years even though I was in debt, and it transformed my mental health (2024)

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• I racked up some credit card debt when I had a good job. When I had to quit, I couldn't keep paying.
• I tried to work out a plan, but the credit card companies refused. I was overwhelmed by guilt.
• I had to stop making payments, and in that time I found a supportive community that transformed me.
• SmartAsset's free tool can find a financial planner to help you take control of your money »

At 25, I was working for a fashion start-up in New York City, making $60,000 a year. Even though my monthly income was enough to pay the bills and build savings, I spent impulsively, like most young people do. Oyster happy hours, trendy workout classes, leather jackets, impromptu trips to Mexico, and drunken nights out were all swiped on a credit card without a care in the world.

A year later, I was $18,000 in credit-card debt, and the large monthly minimums crept up on me. I took out a $10,000 low-interest personal loan to consolidate my credit card debt with monthly payments of $250. On the remaining $8,000, I made $600 monthly payments diligently to avoid accruing interest, even managing to pay down balances on a few of the cards. I learned a very expensive lesson and lived frugally with plans to pay for all the debt in two years.

Things went off the rails when I filed a sexual harassment complaint against a coworker in 2018. The small company I worked for didn't have a human resources department, so the investigation was handled really poorly. To prioritize my mental health, I ended up leaving my job without a backup plan. Before I could even worry about rent and utilities, I was heartbroken over what unemployment would do to the two-year repayment plan that I had in mind.

I tried to negotiate a lower monthly minimum payment

I crunched the numbers and decided to continue paying for my personal loan, but I couldn't afford the rest of my debt payments. I called the credit card companies to negotiate a lower, more manageable payment, but my request was denied because I had no proof of income.

"But that doesn't make sense," I pleaded with the operator on the phone. "I want to make smaller payments just to keep the account current." I was baffled. I thought I did everything right. I took initiative and reached out before the payment due date and everything. I was devastated, and I feared what an imperfect credit score would do for my future.

To make matters worse, it was really difficult to find work in my mental state. The stress from being sexually harassed at work, the messy investigation, and this drastic lifestyle change really took their toll. Even though I was late on payments, I ended up putting groceries and basic needs on credit cards in desperation. For the next two years, I stopped making payments on my credit cards, only paying down my personal loan.

I sank into a deep depression while creditors blew up my phone

Eventually, my accounts became past due and credit card companies were calling me nonstop. Each time my phone lit up with a random 800 number — or worse, a blocked number — I felt nauseous. It got to the point where I was afraid to open my mail or answer my phone. I ignored calls from concerned friends and family members because I was too scared to admit that I was in trouble.

Meanwhile, late fees and penalties snowballed. At one point, credit card companies were hounding me for $1,100 per month after late fees and interest. For me, $1,100 covers rent, utilities, and meager groceries for the month. But for these faceless credit card companies, $1,100 was a drop in the ocean.

My debt was sold to a collection agency, and the calls came flooding in from new 800 numbers. The truth was cold: Credit card companies would rather sell my debt (plus late fees and interest) instead of working with me — an unemployed neurodivergent queer and trans person of color — on a manageable payment plan. It's more profitable for them, and they didn't care one bit about me or my wellbeing as long as they could keep lining their pockets.

I've never felt more dehumanized in my life

It felt pointless to tell people what was happening with my credit, because I couldn't stop blaming myself for my situation. I couldn't even talk to my own partner about my debt. One fall afternoon in Brooklyn, I was waiting for my partner to pick me up from my house when I suddenly burst into tears on my front stoop. She begged me to open up to her.

I told her about everything — the failed negotiation, my crippling fear of opening my mail, and my intense feelings of guilt and shame around missed credit card payments. After my snotty confession, I was seriously afraid she'd break up with me. Who would want to be with someone who couldn't manage their finances?

Instead, she held my hand and said compassionately, "I've been through the same thing, babe." I was stunned. She shared her story with me, and our experiences were nearly identical. She, too, felt completely dehumanized by credit card companies. "The fact that they're hounding you for money that they don't really need is really not about you," she said. "You tried your best."

I decided to take care of myself

After coming out of self-imposed isolation, I found a peer support group with other people of color who were struggling with debt. Together, we created daily affirmations to help cope with the emotional weight of the debt: I am not my debt. I'm a good person, no matter what my credit score is. I can always start over. I am talented and valuable, no matter how much money I owe. We deserve financial freedom. We deserve wealthy communities and easy lives.

I saw firsthand how debt crippled communities of color in particular. Like me, many other people of color chose to risk financial stability to prioritize their mental health in workplaces fraught with racial and gender discrimination.

When we asked our parents and loved ones for support, they were more than happy to help. But instead of drawing from generational wealth like many white families do, our parents drew from retirement funds and cut back on their own basic necessities to support our financial emergencies. Knowing I wasn't alone made all the difference. It was healing to be around other people of color working toward financial freedom.

With renewed confidence, I started getting more work as a freelance writer. I wanted to rush into paying back all of my debt right away, but my peer support group advised me to spend money on myself first. They even suggested that I take a vacation to reward myself for all my hard work.

I reluctantly took my friends' advice. I booked a cute Airbnb in Joshua Tree for a writer's retreat, splurged on new shoes, booked a massage, and switched to organic groceries. Little by little, I started to feel more like myself again.

I realized that I owed myself a big debt: a debt of gratitude, kindness, confidence, self-esteem, and courage to reach for the things I really want in life. And this debt is bigger and way more urgent than a few thousand dollars that I owed a credit card company that doesn't even see me as a whole person.

I'm committed to making a new relationship with money

Now that I'm back on my feet financially, I've set up manageable payment plans with collection agencies. I pay a total of $175 per month on old credit card debt, and I call the agencies regularly to see if I can negotiate a lower monthly payment. Instead of prioritizing paying all the debt at once, I'm more invested in making room in my budget to enjoy myself. I anticipate paying off the debt completely in five years.

Money does not define me, but I can't deny that money can get me a better quality of life. I don't regret the leather jackets, jokes exchanged over oyster happy hours, and those beautiful trips to Mexico — I deserve to have good things, and I always will. I had to forgive myself for my debt first before taking steps toward financial freedom.