Poverty Taught Me What Money Never Could

Poverty has taught me more than money ever has.

Not to say I have experienced the deepest, most violent edges of it. I have not. I know there are levels of lack I have been spared from. And I am grateful for that.

But I have known the kind of poverty that begins the day you move out and realize you no longer have a permanent place in your mother’s house.

I have known what it feels like to count coins at mealtime.

To calculate whether hunger is cheaper than dignity.

To excuse yourself from friend groups because you are already dreading the inevitable suggestion:“Let’s grab coffee.”

“Let’s plan a girls’ trip.”

“There’s a wedding contribution...”

I have known the silent mathematics of embarrassment.

The way your chest tightens when the bill is placed on the table.The way you rehearse excuses before anyone even asks.

Granted, this is not the worst that could happen. I did not have a child to feed then. I was not sleeping outside. But the absence of extreme suffering does not erase the presence of shame.

And shame lingers long after your bank account recovers.

Because poverty is not just about money.

It is about belonging.It is about access.It is about whether you feel comfortable taking up space.

Weeks ago, I attended a wedding.

A beautiful and luxurious one, attended by Nairobi’s finest.

When my friend extended the invitation, I was honored. I spent weeks shopping for a dress. I wanted my state of dress to say, I belong.

The church was so polished it felt more like a five-star boardroom than a place of worship. There were quiet whispers about how it obtained its funding, but nobody dared to say anything aloud.

After the service, we proceeded to the reception at Karen Country Club, equally elegant, equally exclusive.

My friend and I were seated at a random table.

Shortly after, her friends approached her and told her to join them at their table. I glanced toward it. It was at the front.

They added that she didn’t belong at the table we were seated at.

I smiled and encouraged her to go. I insisted, in fact. My daughter and I would be fine on our own.

Hesitantly, she left.

I was not offended.

I am not one to cling to people who feel they don’t belong at my side. I am comfortable sitting alone.

What hurt was not her leaving.

What hurt was the suggestion that I did not belong at that table.

Alone, I stood out.

I tried to make conversation with those around me, a drunk distant uncle of the bride, a co-worker of the mother, other guests who also seemed misplaced. We were the “overflow.” The socially acceptable excess.

And in that moment, I recognized something familiar.

For some people, there is always a hierarchy.

And they will let you know when you are overstepping.

There are front tables in every room. Inner circles in every gathering. Invisible ladders people expect you to know your position on.

And if you do not instinctively place yourself where they think you belong, they will correct you.

Years ago, that moment would have destabilized me.

I would have questioned my dress. My presence. My worth.

But poverty had already taught me something.

It had already stripped me of the illusion that seating arrangements determine value.

Money may purchase proximity.

But it cannot manufacture self-possession.

That day, I did not shrink.

I observed. And eventually, my friend came back. I quietly observed that for some reason, she preferred my presence over the "it" table.

What Poverty Made Me Unlearn

Poverty did not only take things from me.

It took illusions.

I had to unlearn seeking validation through how much money I could give, because suddenly, I had none.

When you cannot contribute financially, you are forced to confront an uncomfortable truth: how much of your worth you believed was tied to generosity as performance.

Poverty taught me to stop overgiving.

Not because I became selfish, but because I became honest.

I learned to leverage the value I do offer, my presence, my insight, my steadiness, my acts of service, my love and care, without apologizing for what I cannot provide.

I learned that access to me is not free simply because I not have the money.

I also had to unlearn the performance of wealth. The curated “old money” aesthetic. The quiet luxury costumes. The belief that if I dressed correctly, I could pass undetected.

Poverty humbled that illusion quickly because truly wealthy people do not recognize each other by outfits. They recognize each other by surnames. By schools. By family histories.By shared social memory.

No amount of linen, neutral tones, or restraint can override lineage.

And once I understood that, I stopped trying to belong where belonging is inherited, not earned.

Poverty taught me something radical:

To stop auditioning for rooms that require erasure.

To stop mistaking proximity for acceptance.

To stop performing wealth to soften other people’s discomfort.

It taught me that impostor syndrome is sometimes just clarity arriving late.

Poverty did not make me less.

It made me precise.

The Wealth No One Can Revoke

There is a kind of wealth that cannot be seen in seating charts.

It cannot be identified by last names. It cannot be confirmed by who invites you to the front.

It is the wealth of self-possession.

The wealth of knowing you do not have to perform to be worthy.

The wealth of sitting alone at a table and not questioning your existence.

Poverty stripped me of the ability to buy validation.

And in doing so, it forced me to build identity.

It forced me to separate generosity from desperation. Style from status. Belonging from proximity.

Some people spend their lives fighting for the front table.

Poverty taught me how to build my own.

And when you build your own table, you decide who sits at it. And guess what? You're always welcome.