When my partner and I tied the knot, we were both immersed in graduate studies. We were what I like to call “ramen noodle poor.” For our wedding, we enlisted a random biker sporting a bandana to officiate, surrounded by friends. One friend held her phone so my mom could listen in from Florida, as a flight for her to attend was beyond our budget. The biker’s fee was $80, and I felt every bit of that expense as I wrote the check.
During our student days, we braved the chilly winters in Cincinnati without heat in our cramped studio. Despite juggling part-time jobs and classes, we couldn’t afford to heat the place. We trekked through snow to attend classes and relied on public transportation for longer journeys. Our refrigerator was often bare.
We were self-sufficient, managing our education with little assistance from our parents.
Now, I have two children, ages 10 and 6. My partner and I have set up college savings accounts for each of them, initiated during my pregnancies and regularly funded since. The balances fluctuate with the stock market, and my estimates suggest that, barring another recession, we might cover a year or two at a state school. However, it’s clear we won’t have enough for a full four-year degree—especially if they aim for a private university.
One might assume that given my own struggles in college, I would be eager to bridge that financial gap. However, I am resolute in my belief that my children should be responsible for their education costs. Many believe parents should ensure their kids have access to the best schools, regardless of expense, but I see it differently.
Part of my reasoning is undeniably self-serving. My partner and I could afford to pay for our kids’ college if we tapped into our retirement savings and made sacrifices. But for what benefit? To drain our finances during our golden years—those fleeting years when we can enjoy life before aging sets in—just so our children can attend a school that may not even lead to a job they love? I want to preserve those funds for a comfortable retirement. Having once worked for a financial advisor, I am well aware of the sacrifices needed for a secure future. Covering our kids’ education entirely might lead to financial dependency on them later, right when they are facing their own educational expenses for their kids. I’d prefer they deal with student loan debt than our own nursing home costs.
More critically, I want my children to cultivate independence. I want them to fight for their education, to discover scholarships, seek out financial aid, and work hard. They can start at a community college and transfer to a four-year university later. Whatever it takes.
I pursued a degree in music performance, funding my education through scholarships and a modest amount of loans. Admittedly, I should have double-majored, given the competitiveness of the music field, but the funds were there, and I took advantage of them. Now, with a master’s degree, I thrive as a freelancer and social media manager—jobs that no traditional degree back then could have prepared me for. The most valuable lessons I learned about financing my education didn’t come from lectures.
I’ve never regretted the frugal lifestyle I led during college; rather, I take pride in having navigated it independently, even if it required some hardship. I want my children to gain that same sense of competence, even if it means facing challenges along the way.
If a bit of struggle results in my children learning resilience, resourcefulness, and independence alongside their academic subjects, I will consider it a worthwhile investment.