Money Moves
Pay Yourself First: On Money, Communication, and the Art of Staying Afloat
I heard this sentence often in my life; sometimes whispered, sometimes said with resignation, sometimes offered as a joke that lands a little too close to home.
“I can’t save. There’s simply nothing left at the end of the month.”
If this sounds familiar, it’s because it is. I’ve said it myself. Many times. And for a long while, I believed it to be true.
The mistake, I later learned, wasn’t a lack of discipline or ambition. It was a misunderstanding of order. I had been paying everyone else first—landlords, companies, institutions, expectations—and leaving myself for last. By the time I arrived at the end of the month, there was nothing left to arrive with.
“Pay yourself first” is one of those phrases that sounds suspiciously like advice meant for people with comfortable salaries and spare margins. It can feel detached from reality, especially if your income is average and your fixed costs are anything but forgiving.
Bills must be paid. Rent does not negotiate itself. Children need food. Life, quite reasonably, insists on being funded.
I agree with all of that.
But here is the part we rarely examine: order is communication. And communication, whether in leadership, management, or personal finance, is an art.
After my separation, I moved out with my child and very little else. During my marriage, I had worked part-time and invested most of what I earned into our family. I had no significant savings, no safety net waiting for me in the background. When I asked my former partner for support, the answer was brief and definitive: I would have to manage on my own.
And so I did. Pride played its part.
At first, it worked surprisingly well. On a very average Swiss salary, I calculated my fixed costs carefully and allowed myself a modest monthly amount—around five to six hundred francs—for food, transport, and everything else. Some months it worked. Some months it didn’t. The rest, I set aside immediately, even before creditors began to take their share. A portion went into savings. A portion into small investments.
I didn’t deprive myself entirely. I rewarded myself when it made sense. That part matters more than most advice acknowledges. Taking care of yourself along the way is not optional. You deserve to feel good, especially when you are the one carrying the weight and doing the work on your own. Everything else is secondary.
And slowly, a cushion formed.
Then life did what it always does. I lost my job. Two months of unemployment followed. Then a new position, limited to six months. No extension. Depression crept in quietly, as it often does, disguised as exhaustion. Another stretch of unemployment followed—nine months this time—while the bills continued to arrive with impeccable punctuality.
During this period, I had also launched my magazine and invested a significant amount of what I had saved. Looking back, I am deeply grateful that I did. The money disappeared faster than I would have liked. The sense of security went with it.
I was anxious in ways that occupied both my days and my nights.
At some point, something shifted in me. Not in a dramatic way. More like resignation giving way to clarity. I realised I had two choices: spiral inward, or act intelligently within my constraints.
Around that time, I listened to an audiobook by Grant Cardone, Be Obsessed or Be Average. His story—growing up with very little, driven less by comfort than by survival—felt uncomfortably familiar.
What struck me wasn’t the bravado, but a recurring theme: he spoke openly about investing aggressively, often before circumstances looked “safe.” He talked about paying himself first, sometimes even before rent was due, and relying on communication to bridge the gap.
It sounded absurd. Irresponsible, even. And yet, there was something undeniably human about it.
I had never missed a rent payment. Not once. No tax debts. No serious liabilities. (A brief aside: never create tax debt. Truly. This is a hill worth dying on, but pay your taxes.)
Then one month, an urgent bill arrived—equal in size to my rent—and I waited until the final reminder. I knew exactly what would happen if I didn’t act. So I paid it.
There was nothing left for the rent.
I sat with that reality longer than I care to admit. And then I did the one thing most of us avoid at all costs: I called my landlord.
I explained the situation. Honestly, though not exhaustively. He was not pleased. He was, in fact, visibly irritated. But because I had never been late before, he agreed—begrudgingly—to let me pay the accrued rent the following month.
It worked.
The month was saved by a willingness to communicate.
This is not advice for everyone. It is not a template. It is a reflection born from constraint.
What I learned is simple, though not easy:
Money management is, at its core, a leadership exercise. It asks you to negotiate, to communicate under pressure, to take responsibility without pretending control where there is none.
When you learn to speak about money—clearly, without shame—something else returns as well: inner peace. And with it, confidence. And with confidence, better decisions and finally a better life.
Over time, this practice does more than stabilize your finances. It trains your communication skills, your emotional intelligence, and your ability to lead—not just teams or companies, but yourself first.
And that is how you move to a different level.
