I will admit that I grew up privileged. I grew up in a household where education was considered paramount to everything in the true Asian parent tiger fashion. There was an expectation that I would always go to college. Also, too, my mom always reinforced the belief that women should never be reliant on anybody else, especially a husband—one should always be self-sufficient, she said, likely thinking of her bitter relationship with her long-lost father.

I had access to college. And graduate school. I was persuaded to get a law degree, but got a masters in something so unique and rare. When I lacked resources, I could always turn to my parents, although I rarely ever did once I got my first job in college.

I grew up knowing how to manage money, almost to a fault. I am stingy with everything, always following a scarcity rule—pumping out as much as I can from any event (free food! ample networking! seeing sights!). I split bills down to the penny in fairness.

When I look at people with more than me—things, I mean—I don’t feel jealousy. Instead, I wonder who they are and who they can be. But then I wonder for those who have less than me, do they see the same in me? Hope? Or just jealousy?

I am fearless about healthcare maintenance (except, of course, when it physically hurts). I may think: yet another undecipherable bill. But I don’t think: I can’t afford this, because I need to pay next month’s rent. I hurt a little bit when I put my credit card down, but it stings and I move on quickly.

I have the privilege to seek help when I need it. And if I don’t, it’s mostly because I am afraid to, not because I don’t have the money. But when I am afraid, there are people and I can find them. I have the skills to find them. My fingers dance across the keyboard. My mind logically thinks round and round puzzle pieces, solving them, until they make a full picture so that I can make a decision. I say my thing and I am not afraid that I’ll lose.

I am privileged and I am not afraid to admit it.