Rewriting Your Money Story: A Journey of Generational Loss, and Renewal.
Reflecting on one's lifelong relationship with money isn’t easy.
It takes courage to unpack the emotional baggage tied to every dollar earned—or lost. Growing up, I often heard things like: “Turn off the lights! Shut the door! Were you born in a barn?” and “Do you think we’re made of money? Do you think this is the U.S. Mint?” Then there were the classics: “Money doesn’t grow on trees!” and perhaps most damaging, “Money is the root of all evil.”
With messages like these, it’s no wonder so many of us carry complex, sometimes conflicting, emotions about money.
My money story begins with parents shaped by the Great Depression and WWII. Their attitudes toward money were hand-me-downs from a generation that had lived through bank failures, joblessness, and global wars. Financial fear wasn’t abstract for them—it was lived experience. My father, the 19th and last child of first-generation immigrants, was nicknamed Pee Wee. His parents ran a small-town grocery store in the teeny town of Eden Valley Minnesota, that ultimately failed because they extended too many IOU's and credit to the local townspeople. That little store had been their lifeline. After it closed, they were on their own. There weren't food stamps, nor local food shelves— they had to rely solely on the inconsistent pay my grandfather earned as a working hobo (hobo stands for homeward bound) for the WPA. My dad grew up dirt poor, on the proverbial ‘wrong’ side of the tracks next to the town dump.
His childhood forged in him, a deep resolve to build a different life. In 1954, he joined the ROTC and served successfully for six years in the U.S. Navy—a teenage decision that would later provide him with vital medical and housing benefits. He understood very early on that career choices could be a lifeline. “Lisa,” he once said, “I saw those guys in their pressed white shirts, sharp suits with change jingling in their pockets, and I knew I’d be a salesman.” He shared stories of hard times: eating cabbage broth soup for weeks, even months on end, and how Sunday dinner meant chasing down a skinny chicken in the yard. Syrup was replaced with milk and sugar. Orange juice was watered down and shampoo had to be carefully rationed. It was from him, that I learned to bridge the challenging times and how to stretch a dollar. By the fifth grade, money was always on my mind. I started selling seed packets door-to-door, buying them for a penny and selling for a dime. I made six dollars in a week—and then lost it. I’d set my coin purse down in a store aisle (to compare things in the next aisle) and when I returned, it was gone.
Money earned. Money lost. Lesson learned.
At 15, I got a job as a babysitter and housekeeper, earning $70 a week. I could finally buy my own clothes and cosmetics. For the first time, I felt the power of money. I began paying Social Security taxes in 1981 and continued working part-time through 2013, identifying as a stay-at-home mom and trusting my spouse to manage our finances. We started a 401(k), watched it grow—then, in an instant, we saw a third of our investments wiped out during the great housing crash of 2008. Our home value fell from $145,000 to $74,000.
At 48, I rolled up my sleeves. I wanted to understand why some people were able to be generous, while others would barely get by. I noticed something profound: people with financial strategies seemed less stressed. I watched as my best friend’s parents were able to give $25k annually to their grandkids. Those kids had paid-for private high school, decent cars, and $100,000 for four years of college. Meanwhile, my young adult story was being lost, alone and broke -- wandering around New York City, trying to figure out where I belonged. The gap between our experiences felt like a canyon. In 2015, I met with a financial advisor for the first time. I started a Roth IRA, launched a new career as a coach, paid off my student loans, bought real estate, and began again. I was finally ready to confront the family legacy of scarcity thinking, passed down through generations. I recalled my parents at the same age (they experienced a bankruptcy and a foreclosure) and wondered: what could they have done differently, if only they’d had access to better knowledge or support? My dad’s employer had helped him build up a $100,000 profit-sharing account, but they never transferred it into a growth vehicle. That money dwindled during a mid-life crisis that left my father homeless and my mother penniless. I had just turned 19.
In 2021, I joined Thrivent Financial after attending a church-sponsored workshop in Rochester, Minnesota. I remembered hearing about the Lutheran Brotherhood years ago, but never saw it as relevant to me. This time, we met with an advisor, rolled over our savings, purchased life insurance, and even bought three policies for our grandchildren. In four short years, our net worth has grown tenfold—something we never achieved when our only strategy was “just save.”
In 2024, I joined Thrivent as an Engagement Leader, giving me an insider’s view into financial strategy and empowerment. My story proves that it’s never too late to become the person you were meant to be. I’m finally one of those people who can give generously, plan wisely, and support future generations.
My dad is gone now, but I can still hear his voice: “Lisa, I love life—and so do you!” And now, I can finally say: “I love this new life I’ve created, planning truly makes generosity possible.”
