Why People Sometimes Spend Too Much

Spending too much money doesn’t always mean someone is careless. Often it means they’re tired. Tired of counting every dollar, tired of feeling guilty after buying something small, tired of trying to prove they deserve to feel okay. When a person spends again and again, when the urge feels urgent, the better question is: what does spending give them that saving doesn’t?

For some, it’s excitement. For others, it’s a feeling of control. And for many, it’s about something deeper: fear. Often dressed up as safety.

None of this means people are reckless by nature. Many over spenders are trying to feel something human: aliveness, steadiness, a chance to decide.

Jonathan O’Neill, a retail worker in Cornwall, once called himself an “investigative shopper.” During lockdown he bought a road bike even though he already had three, then a sweatshirt, then a TV. Each purchase gave him a flash of control in a frozen season. The relief faded; the guilt crept in; the urge returned. He wasn’t competing with anyone. He was trying to feel like his life still moved.

The same goes for giving. There is a kind of generosity that breathes. It keeps the giver whole and the gift honest. It sounds like, “I want to help, and I’ll help where I can,” and it makes room for rest. That’s real generosity.

Its twin looks similar on the outside but runs on a different fuel. The smile is there, the wallet opens, the hand reaches out, but the engine is fear. This version performs care to secure a place in the room. The difference is subtle in public and obvious in private: one leaves you steady, the other leaves you hollow.

People also misread overspending as jealousy, she’s keeping up; he wants what they have. Sometimes comparison plays a role, especially when smartphones screen broadcast of other people’s highlight reels. But envy isn’t usually the driver.

Overspending isn’t usually about being better than someone else.
It’s about trying to feel okay for a little while.

When you feel stuck or left behind, buying something can feel like a quick fix.
Envy looks at what other people have.
Urgency says, “I need to feel safe right now.”

That’s why a person might buy things no one else will ever see.
There’s no crowd to impress.
It’s just your body and brain trying to calm down.

If you grew up with “not enough” or scarcity. Not enough money, not enough attention, not enough steady ground, you might carry two fast rules into adulthood.

The first says, take it while it’s here. Waiting never worked, so speed feels wise. Sales and windfalls don’t feel optional; they feel like alarms.

The second says, earn your place. Be generous, be useful, pick up the tab, anticipate needs. It wins praise, and it works, until it doesn’t. Because a place earned that way has to be earned again tomorrow. You are never quite done.

So buying can sound like a quiet line inside: “This is mine. I get to decide.”

This is where the difference between a deal and a gift matters. A gift is chosen and free of strings. It tells the truth about limits. It can say yes with warmth and no without drama.

A deal looks generous but is really a bargain for belonging: if I give enough, maybe I’ll be safe, maybe I’ll be kept.

You can feel the difference in your body. A gift relaxes you. A deal tightens your jaw. When fear drives giving, love can become a kind of currency.

Rules can help with money. Budgets help. Alerts help. Envelopes help. But rules don’t loosen fear. When your body feels unsafe, it wants a fast fix. Rules can feel like a wall. You push against the wall, then spend to feel free.

Permission is different. Permission is a quiet yes inside you. It says, “I am safe even if I don’t buy.” It says, “I still belong even if I say no.” It says, “I can refuse and still be valued.” When that yes is there, rules stop feeling like a cage and start feeling like support. You can choose, not just obey.

Think of a hard day. The urge to buy shows up. With no permission, the voice is, “Fix this now.” With permission, the voice is, “I’m okay. I can wait a bit.” You take a breath. You drink some water. You step outside or reset one small corner of the room. You text a steady friend. You set a ten-minute timer. When the timer ends, you look again. Many times the urge is smaller. If the thing still matters, you can decide with your plan, not your panic.

Permission also helps with giving. Without it, giving turns into a deal: “If I do more, they will keep me.” With permission, a gift is a gift. You can say, “I want to help, but I’m at capacity. Next week works.” You are still kind. You are still in the circle. Your no is not a threat; it’s a boundary that lets your yes stay honest.

This is not a free pass to do whatever. It’s the ground your choices stand on. From that ground, saving feels like building a steady floor, not like punishment. Spending fits inside a boundary, not as proof of worth. Giving breathes. And because the choice is truly yours, it’s easier to keep.

Think about the loop.
A hard day. A lonely night. A thought that you’re falling behind.
Tension builds and the urge to buy grows.

You buy something.
For a moment it feels exciting or it gives you a sense of control.

Then the bill or bank numbers come back.
Regret shows up.

If regret turns into shame, the inner voice says, What’s wrong with me?
Shame can’t sit still. It wants fast relief.
The quickest relief is to buy again.

And the loop starts over.

This is not about careful thinking.
It’s about speed.
Regret can help you learn.
Shame only makes the cycle run faster.

Saving rarely answers the same need. Spending delivers a jolt; movement, agency, that small burst of I decide. Saving builds a different feeling; margin, steadiness, a future that doesn’t snap so easily. Both matter.

They do different jobs. If someone is buying to feel powerful for ten minutes, moving twenty dollars to a savings account won’t scratch the itch in that moment.

The work is to find other ways to feel powerful that don’t torch the month.

Small moves help more than grand vows. When the urge hits, notice it without scolding yourself; name what it’s trying to do, bring some spark, restore a sense of control, take the edge off fear. Then feed that need in another way for a few minutes.

A quick reset of the room can return a sense of agency. A walk can lift a flat day. A steady voice on the phone can calm danger that isn’t actually in the room. Give yourself a brief pause, ten minutes on a timer, then check again.

Often the purchase shrinks back to size once your nervous system is less loud. If it still makes sense, you can decide with your numbers instead of your nerves.

It helps to notice patterns rather than single slips. Do the purchases cluster after conflict, late at night, or after heavy workdays? Is there a phrase that keeps showing up; this will prove I’m not stuck; they’ll see I’m dependable? What does your body do right before you click buy, and what does it do ten minutes after?

And if you are the one who always pays for everyone else, does the thought of saying no feel dangerous in a way that’s larger than the bill? These are not traps; they’re trail markers. They point back to the first question: what am I trying to feel?

The distinction between performance and permission ties this all together. Performance buys belonging. It works hard, spends hard, and never quite rests. It’s loud on the outside and tired on the inside. Permission assumes belonging.

From there, money choices become choices again. You can give because you want to, not because you’re terrified of what a no might say about you. You can spend within a boundary because there’s nothing to prove. The same action: a gift, a purchase, a favor, can come from either place. The difference is invisible on a receipt and obvious in a life.

If any of this sounds like you, trade the cruel question, "why can’t I stop?", for a kinder one: "what am I trying to feel when I reach for my wallet?"

Then answer it in a way that lasts longer than a package on the porch. Spend when it serves your life. Save so your life can hold you. Give in a way that breathes. And let yourself belong before you try to buy it.