Three of my close friends got pregnant this year. And my sister. That’s four baby showers, four registries, a couple of “sprinkles” for the ones who already had kids (and that were outside of my immediate circle), and one very exhausted bank account.
My nephew Kairo just arrived a month ago, and when your baby sister has a baby, you want to be there for every step. Which means the trips back and forth from DC to New York to see him are adding up quick—and trust me, last-minute flights and Amtrak tickets aren’t cheap.
I’ve also stood in five weddings over the years, I’ve got four godbabies, and now seven nieces and nephews total. At some point this year, I sat down and actually calculated what I’ve spent just trying to show up for the people I love, and I wanted to pour myself a drink after (no, but seriously lol).
Now don’t get me wrong. I love all of the people and will always show up for them, I want that to be clear. And I know the same for vice versa. But the thing nobody tells you when you’re single and unmarried: your coupled-up friends are splitting these costs and your friends with kids can bow out with a simple “can’t find a sitter,” while you’re expected to show up every single time. With your whole wallet.
And if you’re like me, reading the news, seeing how Black women are impacted by unemployment rates, and how just everything generally feels financially unstable these days, and well… the math isn’t mathing anymore, and it’s time we talked about it.
Black women are facing what economists are calling a particularly brutal economic moment right now. We’re dealing with inflation that’s hit our grocery bills, rent, and gas tanks harder than most other groups. According to recent data, Black women still only earn just 63 cents for every dollar white men make, and we’re more likely to be the primary breadwinners in our households while also managing student loan debt and supporting extended family. So when another Venmo request pops up for someone’s birthday dinner where we’re splitting the bill evenly even though you only got a salad and one drink, or when you’re being asked to drop $500 on yet another destination bachelorette party, it can feel like a lot all at one time.
There’s this unspoken expectation in our friendships that showing up means spending up. We’ve somehow conflated love with luxury brunches and designer gifts. And listen, I love my people. I’d do anything for them. And I’m not innocent here either—I’ve planned my share of extravagant birthday dinners and trips that probably made my friends’ wallets cry (Paris and Barbados have been recent birthday extravaganzas just since the pandemic). But somewhere along the way, “anything” started meaning going into debt or draining emergency funds to prove we care, and that’s where we’ve all got to pump the brakes (myself included).
The “friendship tax” is real and it’s expensive. Between birthday dinners where the organizer inevitably chose the spot with $23 cocktails, baby showers where you’re expected to bring something from the registry plus a cute outfit to wear, and those “casual” get togethers that somehow always involve spending money, it adds up faster than we want to admit. For those of us who are single, there’s an added layer to this. Couples can split these costs. They’ve got a built-in financial partner who can help absorb some of these expenses or at least commiserate over the shared budget hit. When you’re flying solo, every expense comes straight out of your pocket, no discussion, no help, which often, are partnered friends don’t realize or take into consideration.
And before anyone says “just say no,” let’s be real about what that actually means for Black women. We’ve been socialized to be the glue that holds everyone together. We’re the aunties, the godmothers, the ride-or-dies who show up no matter what. Saying no feels like letting people down. It feels like you’re choosing money over love, even though that’s not what’s happening at all. What’s actually happening is you’re trying to choose financial stability over financial stress, but somewhere along the way we started treating those two things like they’re mutually exclusive.
The pandemic gave us permission to pull back, to say we couldn’t make it because of safety concerns. But now that everything’s “back to normal,” that grace period is over and the invitations are coming in hot. Except our bank accounts didn’t bounce back as quickly as the social calendars did.
So what do we do? How do we maintain these friendships that genuinely feed our souls without them literally taking food out of our mouths? It starts with honest conversations. Real ones. The kind where you tell your girls that you love them but you can’t do the weekend trip this time, or that you’re happy to celebrate but you need to do it in a way that doesn’t involve dropping a whole paycheck. The kind where you propose alternatives like a potluck at your place instead of that new restaurant, or where you’re upfront about your budget before plans get made.
True friendship shouldn’t come with a price tag that leaves you checking your account balance with anxiety every time you hang out, especially not in this economy and with this administration. And if your circle can’t understand that you’re not choosing between them and your money but rather trying to build a financial foundation that lets you be there for them long-term, then maybe that’s a different conversation that needs to happen.
We deserve friendships that enrich our lives, not empty our pockets. And recognizing that doesn’t make you cheap, it makes you wise.