You just paid for your daughter’s summer camp—$1,800 you budgeted for months ago. The payment goes through fine. You have the money. You have six months of expenses saved, actually. But now you’re doing that mental math you know makes no sense: If the car breaks down next month, and the roof starts leaking, and I lose my biggest client, and the market crashes, and…

You open your banking app to check the balance. Again. As if the number might have changed in the three minutes since you paid. As if seeing it will finally convince your body that you’re not about to lose everything.

Later that week, you’ll check it twice more. Maybe after every purchase this week. Not because you’re bad with money—you’re actually excellent with money. But because somewhere deep in your body, you’re still waiting for security to be pulled out from under you. The way something else was, once.

If you’re a driven, ambitious woman who’s built something solid yet still feels financially precarious, you’re not alone. Even Meghan Markle recently admitted, “We’re taught to not even talk about money… I always have a fear of being broke, even knowing I have enough.”

After 15,000+ clinical hours specializing in relational trauma, here’s what I know: That compulsive checking, that catastrophic thinking, that persistent anxiety despite having money in the bank—it’s not about financial literacy. It’s about what your nervous system learned about safety before you even knew what money was.

Four Patterns, Same Anxiety

In my practice, I see how financial anxiety manifests differently depending on what your earliest relationships taught you about safety and resources. But whether love was conditional, money was control, success felt like betrayal, or scarcity was real—the body remembers. And the body doesn’t care about your current bank balance.

When Love Had an Exchange Rate

Sarah came to me for therapy for work stress. (Name and all details changed for privacy but the core of the story remains the same.) A marketing director earning six figures plus freelance income, she’d done everything right—including hiring a financial planner specifically for what she called her “bag lady fears.”

Three months into our work, an important issue surfaced. She mentioned checking her accounts multiple times a week, especially after any purchase. Her financial planner showed her quarterly reports confirming she had more than enough. She would always ask for a “letter grade,” like asking a doctor for a diagnosis. The letter grade was always an A. But still, Sarah worried it would all suddenly disappear.

As we explored this pattern, more of Sarah’s childhood emerged. Raised in suburban comfort, money wasn’t the issue. But love operated like a transaction. Good grades brought warmth from her mother. A B+ and her mother’s face would change—”like a light switching off,” Sarah said. An A+ meant connection, being seen, being praised.

By 35, this shaped everything. In salary negotiations, she’d accept the first offer despite knowing she was underpaid by $20,000. When it came to her consulting, she undercharged by 40% despite knowing market rates. She’d research what others charged, create proposals at market rate, then reduce them before sending.

When her cat needed emergency surgery—$3,000 from her carefully built emergency fund—she paid immediately but lost sleep for nights. “I keep thinking it’s all about to fall apart,” she told me. “Like the money will just disappear.”

“Like the same way your mother’s warmth would just stop?” I gently pressed.

Research confirms what I see clinically—when love feels conditional early on, our nervous systems wire themselves to expect withdrawal at any moment¹. Sarah’s checking wasn’t just about money. It was about scanning for signs that security was about to be withdrawn, just like love was.

When Success Feels Like Betrayal

Priya’s story looked different but came from the same place. A psychiatric nurse practitioner who’d opened her own private practice, she had growing demand but charged half what colleagues did and felt physically nauseous when considering raising rates.

“My parents sacrificed everything,” she explained. Her father did construction by day, cleaned offices at night. Her mother watched other people’s children while Priya did homework at strangers’ kitchen tables.

So, her parents were aghast when she left her stable hospital job for private practice. Priya was terrified that if she raised rates and lost clients, she’d prove them right about her choices. So she kept rates low—insurance against failure and the shame that would come with it.

She’d draft rate increases, then delete them. When a client once said her rates seemed high, she panicked and offered a discount. “Every time I try to charge what I’m worth, my body revolts,” she said. “I’m too scared to watch everyone drop off my caseload.”

When Money Was the Leash

Rebecca (details changed) represents another pattern entirely. She grew up with significant wealth—private schools, trust funds, family compounds. But every dollar came with strings attached.

“They paid for Yale, but only if I studied economics instead of art,” she explained. “They’d offer help with a house down payment, then hold it over my head for years. When I started dating a woman, they threatened to cut me off entirely.”

Her family actively undermined her attempts at independence. Summer jobs were forbidden—”People will think we don’t provide for you.” When she wanted to work during college, her mother said, “Why would you take a job from someone who actually needs it?” The message was clear: You’re too incompetent to survive without us.

Now Rebecca runs a successful consulting firm, but the patterns persist in complex ways. She negotiates aggressively with clients—sometimes to the point of losing deals—because she needs to prove she can earn. But she can’t spend what she earns. She has $200,000 in high-yield savings she won’t touch because even moving it to CDs feels like accepting financial advice, another form of dependency.

“I bill $500 an hour but buy my clothes at Target,” she told me. “I eat peanut butter sandwiches for lunch while advising CEOs. My team thinks I’m eccentric. They don’t understand—I need to know I can survive on nothing. The moment I get comfortable with having money, someone could take it away.”

She turns down lucrative contracts if the client feels too important—the dependency feels dangerous. She’ll only take work she could afford to lose. The paradox is exhausting: working constantly to prove she can earn, while living like she has nothing to prove she doesn’t need it.

When Scarcity Was Real

Michelle (details changed) carries different wounds. She grew up with actual material scarcity in rural Maine. Not genteel poverty with family money in the background. Real poverty.

“People talk about being ‘broke’ in college,” she said. “They mean their parents’ credit card was maxed. I mean we had sleep for dinner—going to bed early so you don’t feel the hunger.”

Electricity cut off in winter. Using the oven for heat. Her mother doing the brutal calculus of which bill to pay. Michelle remembers the specific weight of food insecurity—hoarding school lunch fruit in her backpack, the shame of food stamps, knowing exactly which grocery stores doubled coupons on Tuesdays.

Now she’s a senior software engineer earning $150,000, but her body doesn’t believe it. She has three years of expenses saved but still buys dented cans on clearance. She owns her condo outright but keeps space heaters instead of fixing the furnace. “My financial planner says I could retire at 55,” she said. “But I can’t buy strawberries unless they’re about to expire.”

The professional costs are hidden but real. She won’t negotiate salaries—having any job feels like enough. She works through illness because taking sick days feels like risking everything. And she volunteers for every project, terrified that being seen as “not essential” means being first to go in layoffs.

“My colleagues complain about ‘only’ getting 10% raises,” she said. “I’m still amazed I have dental insurance. They don’t understand—my body is still that kid watching my mom cry over the electric bill.”

The cruelest part is the isolation. She can’t relate to colleagues’ financial complaints. She can’t explain why she brings the same lunch every day or why she won’t join the office coffee fund. Success hasn’t brought belonging—it’s highlighted how different her foundation is.

Different Stories, Same Body Response

What strikes me across all these patterns is how the body holds these truths regardless of current circumstances. Sarah’s body scans for withdrawal. Priya’s body braces for disappointment. Rebecca’s body protects against control. Michelle’s body remembers hunger.

Your nervous system doesn’t read bank statements. It responds to what it learned meant danger or safety in your earliest relationships. And those lessons run deeper than any financial planning session can reach.

Why Generic Money Work Fails

This is why every money mindset book you’ve read hasn’t helped. You can’t affirmation your way out of somatic memory. You can’t gratitude-journal away what your body learned before you could speak.

Sarah knows she has enough—her financial planner gives her an A. Priya understands market rates perfectly. Rebecca can afford whatever she wants. Michelle has more saved than most Americans. But their bodies are still in those childhood moments where safety felt precarious or conditional or controlling or absent.

Generic money work operates at the level of thoughts. These patterns live in the body. It’s like trying to convince someone having a panic attack that they’re safe by showing them statistics. The body has its own logic, formed long before words.

What Actually Helps

While deeper healing takes time, here’s one evidence-based technique that can provide relief. I tell clients to try scheduled worry time—it sounds simple but actually works.

Pick 20 minutes daily. Sit somewhere less comfortable—a kitchen chair, not your couch. Throughout the day when money anxiety hits, write it down: “Check savings.” “Look at investments.” Tell yourself, “I’ll worry about this at 4 PM.”

At 4 PM, worry fully. Check everything. Do the catastrophic math. When the timer goes off, physically throw away your worry list.

Research shows this reduces anxiety significantly within days². It works because it gives your nervous system what it wants—vigilance—but with boundaries.

Different patterns might need different approaches. Sarah needs this for checking. Michelle might need it for spending decisions. Rebecca for accepting support. Priya for rate-setting. The container remains the same; what goes in it varies.

The Deeper Work

In my practice, when these patterns surface, we often use EMDR—Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It’s not talk therapy where we analyze why you’re anxious. It’s a body-based approach that helps your nervous system update its programming.

With each client, we go back to different memories. Sarah’s mother’s face changing. Priya’s parents’ disappointment. Rebecca’s father saying she’d never make it on her own. Michelle’s mother skipping meals so the kids could eat.

Not to relive them, but to help the nervous system understand: that was then, this is now. You have resources now that you didn’t have then.

Research shows EMDR helps most people significantly³. Progress looks different for everyone. Sarah raised her rates 20%. Priya raised hers 15% and kept most clients. Rebecca accepted her spouse paying for vacation without panic. Michelle started buying name-brand peanut butter—still checks the unit price, but name-brand.

Small shifts. But for a nervous system that’s been braced for decades, these shifts change everything.

You Already Know This Isn’t About Money

If you recognized yourself in any of these patterns, then you already know: This isn’t about financial literacy. This is about what your body learned about safety before you could count.

Those patterns made sense once. If love could be withdrawn for a B+, constant vigilance makes sense. If money meant control, rejecting help makes sense. Or if you went hungry, hoarding makes sense. If success means disappointing those who sacrificed, undercharging makes sense.

But you’re not in those circumstances anymore. Your childhood ended. Your nervous system just hasn’t gotten the memo.

You built success while fighting your own nervous system. That’s exhausting. And unnecessary. These patterns can begin to change—not overnight, but gradually. Enough that you can rest between checking. Charge closer to your worth. Accept support without panic. Buy food that isn’t on clearance.

The women I work with discover something profound: “I thought I had money anxiety. But really, I had attachment trauma—or control trauma, or scarcity trauma—dressed up in dollar signs.”

Your bank account can’t heal what happened in your childhood. But your nervous system can learn, slowly, what your spreadsheets already show: You’re safe now. Your body just needs time to believe it.

References

• ¹ Schore, A. N. (2001). Effects of secure attachment on right brain development. Infant Mental Health Journal, 22(1-2), 7-66.
• ² NHS Talking Therapies. (2020). Managing worry through scheduled worry time. Hertfordshire Partnership NHS.
• ³ Shapiro, F. (2014). EMDR therapy in medicine. The Permanente Journal, 18(1), 71-77

Medical Disclaimer