Growing up, I thought everyone worried endlessly about money.

In our house, my mother was always yelling at my father about not having enough. Sometimes the water would be turned off. Sometimes the car would be repossessed. There was always a sense that disaster was not only possible, but lurking right outside the front door, waiting for someone to forget to pay the electric bill.

My grandmother didn’t help.

She told us scary stories about the Great Depression, about being so cold they had to sleep under piles of newspapers just to stay warm.

And then there were our elderly cousins, a married couple who came to visit every winter. They told us stories about starving in concentration camps during the Holocaust. They had been in different camps, both somehow survived, and through a miracle, found each other a year after the war ended.

So, in my young mind, this was normal.

Not having enough was normal.

Thoughts of starving were normal.

Freezing to death was less likely, since we were in South Florida, but apparently my nervous system didn’t get the memo.

Many years later, I discovered the name for my particular brand of terror: poverty consciousness.

And I was genuinely surprised to learn that not everyone had it.

Who knew?

My upbringing, including being raised Jewish, where so many of the stories were about Jews being under threat of starvation, slavery, exile, annihilation, or some fresh new version of “pack quickly, they’re coming,” did not exactly create a relaxed relationship with money.

By the time I moved to Los Angeles at the age of 31, I was primed for healing.

And Los Angeles, being Los Angeles, was ready for me.

I quickly found myself in every imaginable self-help workshop, healing circle, therapy room, and transformation-adjacent living room from Santa Monica to Studio City.

I did rebirthing.

The Hoffman Process.

Landmark.

Shadow Work.

Walked on fire.

The Sedona Method.

EFT tapping.

Affirmations.

Visualizations.

Inner child work.

Outer adult hysteria.

Probably some chanting.

Lots of crystals.

I was on a mission to overcome my crippling fear of being poor and hungry.

I was convinced that earning a lot of money was the solution. So, I built a business. I worked hard. I became successful. I made money.

And yet, somehow, no matter how much I had in the bank, I never felt truly safe.

This is the maddening thing about a core wound.

It does not care about evidence.

You can show it spreadsheets, bank statements, retirement accounts, home equity, a full refrigerator, and a closet with enough shoes to survive several lifetimes, and it will still whisper:

“Yes, but what if it all goes away?”

Any unexpected expense could still put me into a tizzy. A broken appliance. A tax bill. A car repair. A dental emergency. Suddenly I was not a grown woman with resources. I was a frightened little girl, certain we were one missed payment away from doom.

All of the healing helped.

A little.

I was no longer at a ten-alarm fire every day. But the fear still lived in my body. It was not a thought. It was a weather system.

Then one day, while reading A Course in Miracles, I came across a line that stopped me:

“In this moment, I have everything that I need.”

And something in me exhaled.

Because it was true.

Not theoretically true. Not spiritually decorative true. Actually true.

In this moment, I have clean water to drink.

In this moment, I have fresh air to breathe.

In this moment, I have a bed to sleep in.

In this moment, I have food.

In this moment, I have friends who would never let me go hungry.

In this moment, I am okay.

That became my medicine.

Not the kind that instantly erases a lifetime of fear. More like the kind you take every day because it slowly rewires the place inside you that keeps screaming, “Danger! Danger! Danger!”

My poverty consciousness used to be a level nine or ten.

These days, it hovers around a three most of the time.

Okay, maybe a four when the stock market has one of its little hormonal episodes.

And yes, I still check my retirement account more often than is spiritually enlightened.

But I am finally, blessedly, mostly sure that I am not going to end up sleeping in a tent next to the freeway or eating cat food.

Progress, not perfection.

So, will I die with my core wound?

Probably.

At least a little bit.

I may never be the kind of person who hears about an unexpected expense and says, “How interesting,” while sipping herbal tea and radiating nervous-system regulation.

But here is what I know now:

A core wound may stay with us.

But it does not have to run the show.

It can sit in the back seat.

It can mutter.

It can clutch its pearls.

It can remind us of old stories, old fears, old generations who truly did suffer and survive.

But it does not get to drive.

Not anymore.

My wound may still be with me.

But it is no longer allowed to be my fortune teller.

It is no longer allowed to be my financial advisor.

And it is definitely not allowed to decide the quality of my life.

So yes, I may die with a little poverty consciousness still tucked somewhere in my nervous system.

But at least it’s not going to kill me.

And more importantly, it’s not going to steal the joy of this moment, where I really do have everything I need.

To your healing,

Arielle