I’ve been thinking about things lately. And I don’t mean “things” in an abstract sense. I’ve been thinking about tangible objects—primarily items that we purchase and make ours.

One Christmas long ago, my then-boyfriend was excited for me to open my gift. I gently unwrapped the box and lifted the lid. As I peeked under the tissue paper, I discovered a chocolate brown Coach purse and coordinating wallet. I was stunned—and not in a good way.

We’d been together long enough for him to know better. This matching set would make a lot of women happy, but I was not among that group. I have nothing against Coach. I have nothing against people with Coach purses. It was just the wrong gift for me—as though he’d asked one of his friends’ girlfriends what to get me. “Every woman wants a Coach purse.” Wrong.

I’ve always had a weird relationship with “stuff.” Growing up with cystic fibrosis (CF), my primary fear was that I’d die before adulthood. No matter how many toys I owned, this fact would remain the same. This hit me especially hard on holidays as I opened gifts that I liked, yes, but knew wouldn’t change my reality. As a child, I couldn’t quite make the connection as to why receiving gifts made me feel sad. However, when I reflect on it now, I think my illness made me feel irreparably damaged. Not even the most amazing presents could change the fact that what I wanted most was to not have CF.

In today’s world of online shopping, it’s easy to dream up something—sometimes searching just to see if such a product exists. Let’s say I’m like, “I wonder if there’s heated pillow I could use for my neck.” After a quick search, I realize there are tons of heated neck pillows, and I’m deep into comparing reviews. All of this because a curiosity entered my mind, and now I’m mere clicks away from making a purchase. At this point, I still haven’t even paused to reflect on whether I truly want this item or if it’s a good use of money. Yet it’s in my cart and can be here tomorrow—today(!) if I add another qualifying item.

I almost feel like online purchases should require a waiting period. For example, some states make you wait five days to get married after obtaining the license. That’s like making you sleep on it four times (and sober up, if needed), let the thrill wear off, and then make a clear-headed decision that you know what you’re doing. What if we had to satisfy that same waiting period when we wanted to make random online purchases? Would that curb our spending? 

It’s funny that in my earlier example what came to mind was a heated pillow, followed closely by self-massaging shoes. I once heard that what you spend money on reflects your values, and even my examples align with my priorities. My purchasing habits point toward comfort. I seek clothes to lounge around in, products to reduce physical pain, and foods that soothe me. I suppose this is my way of trying to buy the reassurance I longed for as a kid—a way to feel safe and cozy, as though nothing bad will happen. A Coach purse and wallet didn’t contribute to my need for inner peace.

What do your spending habits say about you? What deep-rooted issue might you be trying to buy your way out of? I often see people seeking outside approval by purchasing status items—fancy cars and designer clothing. Or they’re trying to fight the passage of time with anti-aging products, unwilling to accept that, well, people get older. Or they want to achieve a certain physique by buying the latest trending supplements and workout programs—invasive procedures if they’re really committed.

If you analyze your purchases, can you tell what you’re running toward? Or what you’re running away from?

Most of the time, if I pause and reflect—which I’ve gotten better at with practice—I realize I’m trying to buy my way out of an uncomfortable emotion. And clicking “Buy Now” is the most temporary of fixes. I’ve learned to resist.

The perk is that I’m comfy and cozy as I sit and squirm through my emotions. Because TOO MANY SWEATPANTS!