One of the most terrifying things about this year was how very poor I was, for just a little while.

I ate Cream of Wheat because it was cheap; I turned down invitations to dinner because I couldn’t afford an entree. Once, when I was out with a large group of friends (and the only one not eating), a waitress plonked an entree down in front of me, reassuring me that the chef had messed up the order and “no one was going to eat it anyway.” When I hesitated, unsure whether I should accept such a thing, she made eye contact, and her expression was so kind that I just looked away and mumbled a thank you, awash with a mixture of pleasure and humiliation. It just happened to be one of the few vegetarian options on the menu, and I still wonder if someone secretly ordered it for me, aware that pride does not count as a dinner.

I learned to stack things onto the grocery store conveyor belt slowly, to load the necessities first and watch the total in order to spare myself the embarrassment of having to void part of my purchase. My stomach went into knots when I watched the numbers spin at the gas pump. I avoided getting my oil changed for ages, avoiding spending the princely sum of $30 but terrified that my car would break from lack of maintenance and I would really be screwed. I put air in the same leaky tire over and over again. Once, when I made a mistake and forgot I had ordered contact lenses, I overdrafted my account and had to visit the bank and beg for a refund on a pile of bank fees that would have made it impossible to pay rent. When that refund was granted, I sat in the parking lot for twenty minutes, trembling so hard with relief that I was afraid to drive.

Not an hour went by that I wasn’t worried about money. That anxiety desaturated my life, dampening my joys in a way that few circumstances have been able to in the course of my life. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford fancy things; I have never been one for fancy things in the first place. It was the knowledge that even a small crisis of any kind would sink me, combined with the knowledge that small crises are inevitable in this life. It was the sensation that I had stopped living in favor of surviving.

After hearing me make some wistful offhanded comment, my mother surprised me with a Starbucks gift card. I nearly cried into that first caramel latte, because it tasted so good. It sounds absurd, maybe, but that coffee tasted like home, like big planes and other countries and hotels. It tasted like a level of privilege that I had always been grateful for, but nonetheless had pretty much taken for granted as something I would forever be entitled to. It took me back to a time when I had felt fresh and pretty, safe and cared for—when I hadn’t worried that I was turning invisible, dropping through some crack in the bottom of the middle-class world, never to be heard from again. When I hadn’t felt ashamed of myself and of my life. The gift card was for $50, and I used it slowly and carefully, reserving it for my worst moments, for when a warm drink in my hands might make it just a little easier to keep trudging along.

The really crazy thing about all of this is that I wasn’t ever REALLY poor, not for a moment. “Stubborn” is a much more accurate word. My parents and Jeff all made it known that they would help me in a heartbeat; all I would have had to do was ask. Not only that, but I have a degree from an excellent college, impeccable manners, and one hell of a pleasant phone demeanor. Long have I walked with the middle class, and lo, I know of their ways; I can make eye contact and shake hands and speak articulately and thank people for their time. You can’t put a price on that kind of cultural capital, and if you own it, you can never be as destitute as someone who doesn’t.

I am lucky to have it, lucky to have parents who put me behind a cash register and next to a phone starting at the age of thirteen and taught me well. And when I finally got back on my feet again, secured a few good contracts, and could afford my own caramel lattes once more, I didn’t kid myself that my promotion back into MiddleClassLand had been awarded on personal merit. I was just born fortunate, that’s all, growing up in a home full of as many books as I could get my hands on, with parents who weren’t too exhausted or overworked to make sure that I kept my grades up and stayed out of trouble.

I was never really poor, and I can hardly bear to imagine what it must be like to be any poorer than I was for any longer than I was. For me, the most striking part of the entire experience was the persistent and yet somehow impossible knowledge that it could be worse. Some people do this for years, I thought to myself. Some people have it worse than this and no way to make it better. But I couldn’t really believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to think about how this would feel to a child who was old enough to be scared but not old enough to do anything about it, or to an elderly person who was struggling physically and mentally as well as financially. The idea of it breaks my heart.

I know it’s not fair of me, but it’s still hard for me to listen to someone complain repeatedly about how poor they are and then watch them buy a drink at a bar, or walk into a coffee shop and buy a latte, or purchase their third or fourth pair of fashionable boots. I am as guilty of this as anyone, I know, but there is nothing poor about that. There is nothing poor about most of my friends or most of us in this online community. Most of us can spare something, even if it’s just a little bit, and if we can’t, it’s more likely a result of our priorities than our financial situation itself. I’m sorry to be such a hardass about it, but come on. How many of us are skipping meals because we can’t afford to eat? How many of us are taking the bus to work because we can’t afford a car? How many of us will be working a checkout lane at Wal-Mart this Christmas?

I know that not everyone has something to give to others this holiday season. But if you can, please please do. If you’re in the St. Louis area, this is a great charity. That’s the one I chose this year, but there are plenty of options out there if you prefer another.

The experience made me more empathetic in ways that I hope I don’t forget anytime soon. My absentminded scurrying tends to make me a bit unintentionally distant, but instead of breezing through the checkout lane yesterday, tapping on my Blackberry and sorting through a million internal thoughts, I remembered to smile at my cashier, who was an older woman, and treat her like an actual person, because I still remember having that feeling when I worked in customer service to make ends meet—the feeling of disappearing, of not mattering, of being dehumanized. At a bit of a loss for something to say, I commented about how quiet the store was now that the multitude of students living in my neighborhood had gone home for Christmas.

“Aren’t you going to go home for Christmas?” she asked.

“In a few days,” I said. “I have a few things to wrap up here.” (This was my vague way of saying that I had just finished all of my editorial projects for the pay period and wanted to take a few days to myself to soak in the tub, snuggle with the cat, tidy up my house, nap, and write blog posts.)

“I wish I could go home for Christmas to see my family,” she said. “But I’ll be working. I’m going to be able to take a few days off in March, though. I’ll get to see my grandchildren then! I can’t wait.”

March? March isn’t even on my radar. I will be excited about a million different things about between now and then. I’m going to San Diego for New Year’s, and even that seems far away to my frequently indulged self. Isn’t it time to drink too much wine, yell HAPPY NEW YEAR! and then climb into my hotel bed and pass out? No? You mean I have to endure days of loafing around by the fireplace on my parents’ couch in a Snuggie first, piled with wee puppydogs and books? Oh the humanity.

No matter your situation, happy holidays to you. If things are hard, I hope they get better soon. If things are better, I hope you share the wealth. If you have nothing else to give, at least be kind to the person bagging your groceries or waiting your table. None of us want to admit it, but we have at least occasionally thought to ourselves that the unprofessional, sullen woman filing her nails behind the counter for nine dollars an hour deserves to be where she is. Even if she does–even if the different strata the two of you exist in really are separated by a cushion consisting entirely of your merit as a person, which is so beyond debatable that it’s laughable to even contemplate–your life is likely infinitely better than hers, and you can afford a little patience and a little grace.

But maybe, if you really think about it, and if you skip a few fancy coffees this week, you can afford even more than that.

If you can, thank you, from someone who can only guess what it must be like to be relying on those contributions this season. Here’s hoping they have a good Christmas, too, and that we have a little something to do with that.