Leave Me A-Loan

When I graduated college, I told myself that I needed to make six-figures by 30. For anyone, this is an ambitious goal. For anyone in journalism, this is an ambitious goal. But I figured I’d shoot for the moon and, if I failed, land among the high-earning stars. Any amount close to that would be fine.

The years went by. I actually wasn’t doing too badly. As I turned 23, 24, 25 my salary went up and up and up, thanks to raises, job changes, etc. I hadn’t (and haven’t currently) reached six-figures yet, but my salary was increasing. Though, as I earned more, nothing felt different. I paid for all the same things I did before yet still had trouble saving money.

Meanwhile, in the dark cloud hanging over my head, my student loans lingered.

The balance threatened my every being: $48K of debt, increasing at the rate of about 6% interest (some had higher interest rates, some had lower). I’m well acquainted with the number by now, but back then I couldn’t bear to even look at it, much less start to pay it off.

My neglect seeped into everything imaginable. Every purchase came with guilt attached: “That money could have gone towards loans,” the cloud would remind me. This was on a good day. On a bad day, it prevented me from spending at all — especially on bigger things like trips with friends or other things that would make me happy. My loans felt impossible to tackle. The best I could do was ignore ignore ignore.

Not everyone can relate to this. Those who can know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s hard to quantify how having loans and not feeling like you’re in a place to pay them back absolutely wrecks you.

It gets worse: Not only was I buried underneath $48K, my neglect led me to default on every single one of my loans. This meant my credit score became trash, the IRS got to keep my tax refunds and more, just because I wouldn’t pay minimums on my debt.

(For those keeping score at home, black loan borrowers default on their loans more than any other race. Half of black student loan borrowers default on at least one loan — twice the rate of white student debtors. Hooray.)

Landing yourself in default also meant your loans got sent to collections agencies, who send you scary letters and endlessly call you. My response? Ignore ignore ignore. Letters went unopened, calls went ignored, emails were left unchecked. I neglected everything, but I also knew everything I needed to: I was four years out of college, and I still didn’t have a plan to pay any of this back. I didn’t even make enough money to even begin tackling this problem. I felt scared and ashamed.

At 26, I realized that I could make double my salary and surely afford more stuff, but it wouldn’t change how my lingering cloud of loans would drag me down at every turn. I also realized that there were many salary amounts out there that I could easily be happy with if I didn’t have mother-effing loans — even the salary I made right at that moment.

So, I pivoted. At 27, I received a raise in the fall that let me afford both New York cost of living and loan minimum payments (what a crazy concept). I finally felt like I was in a place to do something about my debt, even if it was the bare minimum.

And then I lost my job! Just a year later, my employer decided to fire the entire editorial staff and nearly everyone else too in a very public way. Even though I used those 12 months between getting a raise and lay-offs to lift myself out of default, I suddenly saw my salary drop to $0K per year. It was catastrophic. It was also validating. “A salary isn’t guaranteed,” I thought. “Get rid of a loan and it’s gone for good.”

It was at that moment that what I wanted became extremely clear: debt freedom. It was then that I decided I’d pay off all my loans by 30.

Two months had passed since being let go. While still searching for work, I paid off my first student loan ever: a federal loan at 6% interest with a “tiny” balance of 511 dollars and 69 cents.

Nice.