First Deserve, Then Desire

How scarcity, self-worth, and money become entangled long before adulthood

Photo by 12photostory on Unsplash

First Deserve, Then Desire

I grew up learning that desire wasn’t something I could trust. It had to be earned. Justified. Proven.

There was a saying that came up often in my childhood: “First deserve, then desire.”

It sounded reasonable. Almost noble. As if there were moral maturity in self-denial. But when you hear it often enough — especially in a home where you’re also told you’re unlovable, not enough, too much, or simply wrong — it doesn’t make you disciplined.

It makes you smaller.

You don’t end up becoming humble. You end up believing you don’t deserve to desire at all.

And when that becomes your foundation, what follows is a long, confusing relationship with love, rest, ambition — and yes, money.

Hair Accessories and Other Withheld Tenderness

Here’s something I rarely talk about: I never had hair accessories growing up.

That may sound small. It wasn’t.

There were no clips, no bands, no bows — nothing soft, playful, or mine. My hair was allowed to grow long enough to tangle constantly. I didn’t know how to care for it. No one ever taught me.

And when it became too much, it would be cut. Abruptly. Brutally. Not as a reset — but as a punishment.

I never got to feel beautiful on my own terms. Never got to experiment, adorn, or take up space.

I didn’t learn to tend to myself. I learned to endure myself.

As an adult, this shows up in strange ways.

I buy hair masks I never finish. Serums I don’t need. Satin scrunchies in every colour. I barely wear them — but I collect them, almost compulsively.

It’s like I’m building a shrine to a girl who should have been allowed to feel soft. Adored. Worthy of care.

That’s the thing about lack. You don’t just get over it.

It echoes. Quietly. Persistently. In adult rituals that don’t quite make sense until you look closer.

Scarcity Thinking, Dressed Up as “Professional Advice”

It didn’t stop at home. It followed me into the workplace.

Once, during a salary discussion, I was told — seriously, and without irony:

“Why do you need a hike? You’re single and childless.”

As if financial respect was reserved for people with dependents. As if my work mattered less because I didn’t have a family to justify my existence.

What’s worse is this: I didn’t fight it. I didn’t even flinch.

Because somewhere deep inside, the same story was still running the show:

You’re not the kind of person who gets to want more.

So I performed. I gave more than I was paid for. I said yes when I meant no. I kept proving, and proving, and proving —

because that’s what you do when you’re raised to believe your default setting is undeserving.

Money, I learned, was not neutral. It was tangled up with permission. With worth. With the fear that wanting comfort made me greedy instead of human.

My Hero’s Journey Had Nothing to Do with Glory

I joined a coaching program some time ago. One module was about the classic Hero’s Journey — the call to adventure, the ordeal, the transformation.

But when I really sat with it, something became clear.

My journey had never been about glory, success, or power.

My dragons weren’t external. They were beliefs.

And the prize I’d been chasing all along wasn’t achievement or applause.

It was love.

Not romance. Not recognition.

Just the quiet, radical sense of being okay as I am.

Then came the module on money.

And I wasn’t ready.

Because money wasn’t just money.

It was everything that had been withheld. Everything I’d convinced myself I didn’t deserve.

I couldn’t talk about income without talking about shame. About the feeling that I needed a permission slip to want anything at all. That I had to be flawless to earn even basic comfort.

That’s when it cracked open.

My real work wasn’t with spreadsheets. It was with self-love.

Boundaries, Desire, and the Quiet Work of Reclaiming

I’m not magically healed. I haven’t conquered all of it.

But I’ve started.

I draw boundaries now — not just around people, but around my own energy. I don’t stay in conversations that cost me peace. I stop explaining my decisions like they’re courtroom defences.

And slowly, I’ve begun asking a different question.

Not “Do I deserve this?”

But:

Do I want this? Does it nourish me? Does it feel kind?

That shift has changed more than any breakthrough ever did.

I still hesitate at checkout sometimes. Still talk myself out of softness. Still flinch when I imagine asking for more.

But something fundamental has moved.

A Small, Ordinary Proof

Not long ago, my sister-in-law shared photos from a family function she’d attended. I noticed her saree immediately.

It was one I’d picked for her years ago, during a work trip.

She smiled when I asked and said yes — it was that one. And , it had stood out.

Later, I shared a photo from a recent wedding I’d attended and said, almost without thinking: This one stood out too.

It was such a small exchange. A few pictures. A passing comment. And yet, something in me paused.

I’m that adult now.

The one who chooses colours without asking if they’re “too much.” The one who doesn’t flatten herself into safe, forgettable choices. The one who lets herself be seen without turning it into a justification exercise.

For a long time, I was taught that wanting visibility was vanity. That standing out required moral clearance. That desire, especially aesthetic, embodied desire , had to be earned.

So I learned to blend in. To endure rather than adorn.

But healing doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it arrives dressed as a saree that doesn’t apologize for its presence.

Choosing what stands out isn’t about clothes. It’s about permission.

Permission to take up space. Permission to want beauty without explaining why. Permission to stop asking whether I deserve to desire.

First deserve, then desire — that was the rule.

But these days, I’m learning something simpler.

I want. And that is enough.

Get featured in **Break. Breathe. Become. — a space for quiet healing, raw truths, and stories from the heart**. No hacks. No perfection. Just real words for the lost, tired, and growing souls. If you write with heart, you belong here. Come, let us grow together.

[embed]Welcome to Break. Breathe. Become. — A Publication You break. You pause. And somehow, you begin again.medium.com