I Went Viral When I Revealed How Much Credit Card Debt I Have, But There’s Much More To The Story

When news of Donald Trump’s presidential reelection was confirmed in the early hours of Nov. 8, 2024, I felt a lot of things that start with “D”: despondent, defeated, destructive, drunk, but most of all… dumb.

I should have seen this coming. I, of all people… Should. Have. Seen. This. Coming.

Not because I’m psychic or politically savvy, but because I am another thing that happens to start with “D”: drowning (in) debt.

I’ve spent the past two years publicly attempting to pay off $20,000 in credit card debt after my TikTok videos about how much I owed went mega viral. I then began interviewing other people about being in debt both socially (I went from being known as the funny girl at the party to the funny girl in debt at the party) and professionally, as I set out to co-produce “Debt Heads,” a narrative podcast about money.

But despite my many conversations about money, debt, shame and the economy, I still had this very naive belief that our world was ready for a female president who would stand up to bullies and unite our divided population.

It wasn’t until that morning of Nov. 8, bathed in the harsh glow of Steve Kornacki’s MSNBC big board, that it occurred to me: The Biden-Harris campaign was doomed from the beginning because it relied on convincing Americans that the economy was booming when 80% of the voting populace was in credit card debt, facing an unstable job market and rightfully feeling pessimistic about the American dream.

Trump is currently demolishing the social safety nets that his supporters by and large rely on. But they still believe that he’s a savior because he acknowledges their pain and gives them scapegoats to blame – like undocumented immigrants and trans people – so they can hate someone other than themselves.

However, this self-hatred is still there and is confirmed and reinforced by our culture’s dogmatic beliefs about debt, money and the economy. These are beliefs that I held for over 30 years before confronting my debt for the first time, proceeding to make paying off debt my entire personality, and starting to realize why I had been so unsuccessful in paying it off up until that point.

Every January, like clockwork, daytime television hosts, well-meaning lifestyle websites and, more recently, social media influencers declare, “This is your year — the year you finally get your act together and get your finances in order! It’s up to you — and you alone — and you can do it if you just follow these five tips!”

And if you can’t do it? Well, that’s your fault.

Dave Ramsey, one of the most recognizable, successful and ear-splitting voices in the personal finance industry, has built a multimillion dollar empire largely using this punitive tone and rhetoric. “If you’re working on paying off debt, the only time you should see the inside of a restaurant is if you’re working there,” is an example of a Ramsey-ism that makes my skin crawl.

This belief is widespread, and it’s the default understanding of debt in our culture: Debt is bad, and if you’re in debt, you too must be bad. You should be ashamed, and you should keep your shame to yourself.

So we don’t talk about it. We don’t share our experiences with our friends, partners or families. And then, because we’re feeling (a)shamed, we try to find ways to feel better. Like, say, by spending money. It’s a vicious cycle that Cathy O’Neill describes as “the toxic feedback loop” in her book ″The Shame Machine: Who Profits in the Age of Humiliation.”

There are myriad reasons people go into debt. And, of course, there is personal choice involved. No one forced me to spend money I didn’t have on a less-than-ideal salary in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

But when I was forking over my credit card to pay for something I couldn’t afford — typically something that involved an event or activity with friends or other people — I didn’t have the language to understand that there might be something slightly more psychological about my inability to say no to spending. That a fear of being abandoned might be driving me to keep swiping.

That my spending and rising debt might not be merely a result of not being able to control myself.

And that’s just my story. In a system of unfettered capitalism and an economy that continues to prioritize profits for the wealthiest people at the expense of the working class — where wealth is more concentrated than ever before in our lifetimes, where GoFundMe is currently the No. 1 destination for people to seek out assistance with medical debt, and where the concept of the “American Dream” feels like nothing more than a broken promise from our parents’ generation — most people simply cannot afford to live.

My stint with viral fame was fleeting. In the beginning, I intended to take people on a journey while I clawed my way out of credit card debt. I paid it down steadily from over $20,000 to about $8,000. Then, during a slow period when work was harder to come by, it crept back up. Right now, it’s back down to roughly $7,000.

But getting out of debt and figuring out how to get our acts together to take care of our finances on our own is not the way forward.

The way forward is starting to question why we believe that debt is a moral failure or an audit of your self-worth. It’s beginning to ask questions about how we got here in the first place, both individually and as a society. It’s about looking at our systems and culture with a critical eye. It’s about recognizing how our extremely online-ness has cultivated a loneliness epidemic, and how unlimited and immediate access to goods, products and services at the click of a button is keeping us isolated in our own corners, while acknowledging that, of course a generation brought up on TV shows like ”Supermarket Sweep” and ”Shop ’Til You Drop” turned us into a culture of Debt Heads.

It’s about understanding that debt is a symptom of a disconnected society.

When I first started paying down debt, I went full speed ahead, building myself a budget, reprioritizing my values (I care more about saving up to eat in a restaurant on vacation in, say, Paris, for example, than I care about spending an indeterminate amount of money on takeout at home in Brooklyn).

But as my freelance income has ebbed and flowed — and as I’ve spent more time talking to people who, even with full-time jobs, are barely getting by — I realized this approach was unsustainable.

So now, I just do what I can. I track my spending. I try to save. I live and spend in line with my values, and I give myself grace when, amidst the horrors that persist, I sometimes feel like I need a little treat to get through the day.

I apply (and apply and apply) to jobs. I worry about money constantly, but instead of retreating, I talk. To everyone. I try to be like the friend I had who held my hand for other people who need it. I work to examine the ways we got to this point and try to remind myself, and everyone else: We are not alone.

Jamie Feldman is a journalist, essayist and content creator known for her self-deprecating humor and quick wit. Her journey out of credit card debt, which she chronicles on TikTok, has amassed a loyal social media following. Her story has been featured in Fortune, Business Insider and on The Today Show, NBC Nightly News, CBS News and NPR. It is the inspiration behind her narrative podcast “Debt Heads,” which aims to turn the concept of debt upside down and is out now on all platforms. Follow her on Instagram @realgirlproject and @debtheadspodcast.

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