• Written by Rich McNabb • Proofread & Edited by Claude AI
Impulse purchases, a maxed-out credit card, and a questionable financial decision hanging in the balance. The near miss that taught me to think before I click, so I could step off "Enron's Ride of Broken Dreams" financial rollercoaster.
No universe exists, in which the heading above reads like sound financial advice.
Looking out the window, I realised Wellington had turned on the weather so I grabbed my headphones and sunglasses to walk around the city on my lunch break with the warm winter sun on my face.
Not long after leaving the office I found myself walking past the Rockshop, the same store I’d bought my entry-level electronic drum kit for $2,000 from almost five years ago. In the store front window, on full display was the impressive, yet intimidating Roland VAD507.
A premium 5-piece electronic drum kit complete with full-size wood shells and stage presence of acoustic drums, its black tom and snare shells and chrome stands shining in the sun.
Looking down I noticed a sign showing it had been marked down by 20%, the new sale price just over $9,000. Lacking both the cash and drumming competence, I confidently walked up the stairs to the counter to ask if I could try the drum kit pointing back to the one in the window.
As the salesperson and I walked towards the setup, he handed me a pair of drumsticks and headphones and said when the store is quiet he often comes down here to play and would love to own one someday. Like my favourite salespeople, he walked away saying “Let me know if you have any questions” and left me to it.
Sitting down, there was a sizable difference in the footprint. This was a full-sized, acoustically designed electronic drum kit with the added benefit of being playable with headphones, so your neighbours aren’t calling the cops or noise control while you practice. That single detail had been the deciding factor when I bought my first drum kit back in 2020.
The increased footprint, larger cymbals, and bigger snare and tom pad diameters gave me more room to stretch my arm out, more room to breathe, room to actually reach, land, and connect with more freedom. At one point I caught myself thinking “Wait, did I just become an amazing drummer?” before realising the absurdity of that thought and getting swept back up in the moment, having a blast trying out different patterns.
The kick drum, like everything else, was scaled 1:1 to match actual proportions. Realistic haptic feedback coming back through the kick pedal when it connected felt solid and had real weight behind it, like playing an actual full-size acoustic kit instead of triggering a pad.
Fully immersed in the engaging, primal sound of it all, deep and rich, I looked down to see which kidney I’d have to sell so this could come home to live with us.
Later that night, I went online and the reviews backed up what I’d experienced earlier in the day. Roland’s website marketed it as one of their premium models, “delivering high-end performance and genuine acoustic feel”, every detail meticulously designed to recreate the sound and feel of an actual drum kit.
Realising I no longer needed any further convincing and my confirmation bias reached, I added the Roland VAD507 to my cart and with my credit card in my hand was set to go.
Only to get a message on screen saying insufficient funds. Unfazed by this minor setback, and with ADHD hyperfocus in overdrive, I moved some money around and temporarily bumped the limit on my card to push the purchase through.
Then I encountered the next obstacle: due to the purchase amount and my card limit, the payment had to go through as two separate transactions. There was no way to do a split payment on the website, I’d have to go back to their store instead. Just enough friction to give me a moment of pause and reconsider my life choices up until this point.
Ultimately, I decided to fold, empty my cart, and abandon the purchase.
Enough doubt had crept in by that stage it felt like the universe’s way of saying it wasn’t meant to be. In the past, whenever I’ve ignored these instincts, it’s failed to live up to my expectations and left me with buyer’s remorse, only to rise like a phoenix and repeat the same process once my bank account is in healthy shape again. Rinse and repeat.
In my heart I knew I was never destined to become an accomplished drummer fully committing to putting in the serious work required to get to this level.
It was a vanity purchase, whenever someone would say “Rich, I didn’t know you played the drums” I’d be forced to correct them and stating “I own a drum kit,” there was never any mention I knew how to play or my drumming ability.
If I’d forged ahead with the purchase I’d always feel like I’d lied on my resume, which as it always does would catch up with me eventually. At some point, a friend of a friend, or someone looking for a drummer to stand in for their sick bandmate, would ask if I could help out by taking one look at my setup and assume I could play at a competent level.
Later that night at the gig, I’d be booed offstage by the crowd midway through butchering an AC/DC song. People have gone to prison for less. A classic case of “All the gear, no idea”.
Knowing when to hold them and knowing when to fold them have never been my strong suit.
Selling my gold shares had never been the plan. In desperation of trying to figure out how I was actually going to pay for the new drum kit, Ali, my wife, suggested I could always sell some of my shares.
Once this realisation dawned on me, and I opened the Sharesies app to look at what I’d stashed away, a bigger question crept in. At the time my goal was to get to $100k. I was nowhere near it, though I had enough sitting there to cover this purchase.
So what was the goal? With a “why” that no longer provided purpose or meaning I lost motivation to keep stacking up the numbers and investing every penny.
A few weeks after almost buying the drum kit, I cashed in all my chips and sold my shares I’d invested in gold to buy high-end stereo equipment and a surfboard instead. Something I knew would get more use out of yet didn’t necessarily need.
I put $10k straight onto the mortgage and spent the rest on purchases I’d actually use. No regrets. If anything it felt empowering and the opposite of a mistake. Being responsible and paying down some debt first before spending the rest felt like the best of both worlds.
Getting better with money was the whole point of me teaching myself how to invest. By the time I cashed in my chips I had a better understanding of how it works, and I’d already started setting my kids up for the future too.
During the summer holidays, the Wellington job market grinds to a halt. When the sun’s out and people are enjoying time off, it’s easy to ignore the fact I’ve got no job. Everyone’s just hanging out, there’s no schedule, no one has anywhere to be they don’t want to be, so it’s easy to go with the flow and blend in.
When everyone goes back to work and the crowds slowly thin out, it doesn’t matter. I’ve decided to make the most of the downtime instead, hanging out with the kids rather than putting them into holiday programs, while I wait for the job market to pick up and recruiters to start calling in the new year.
That all changes the moment the kids go back to school. There’s nowhere left to hide.
The house is empty during the day. I knew it was time to get a haircut and find my next job when I found myself skateboarding alone at the empty skatepark while my kids were at school right next door. Sometimes the Wellington UX market goes quiet from November to February, and when I’m getting close to April, six months unemployed between contracts, that’s when organic beans start to seem excessive, and I put them back on the shelf.
It’s in those quiet moments where you take stock of yourself. Where you zigged when you should have zagged, and other sporting analogies I couldn’t reference properly, since I don’t share the same love for sports as others.
I didn’t grow up with much money. The few things I owned as a kid, I’d saved months for and looked after fiercely. Add ADHD-driven impulsiveness to that, and whatever little cash came my way as an adult would go on purchases I didn’t actually need.
Money had always followed the same pattern for me: it would build up over a few weeks, then vanish into thin air the moment I saw an item online that would most likely “turn things around,” convincing myself this was a need miscategorised as a want.
Nothing dramatic, just death by a thousand small purchases.
I’m a huge fan of “you’re either earning or you’re learning.” So I decided that’s what I’d focus my downtime on, and finally learn how to get better with money.
I started with the classic Rich Dad Poor Dad, since it’s the book everyone points you towards first. It wasn’t for me. Rental properties, starting businesses, multiple income streams, it talked about all of it. It felt like a system built for someone else’s brain, more administration than anything, and would have taken me away from the areas I was actually passionate about.
The Millionaire Next Door came next, and it was dry, properly dry, and a bit dated in places, reading like a book you were issued at school and forced to write an assignment on. Still, credit where it’s due, underneath the academic writing it was grounded and well researched. The principles it landed on were practical and down to earth.
This was by no means a glamorous read, just simple budgeting advice, living below your means and living a frugal existence. You’d get results, however you’d lose the zest of life if you followed it too closely, so I cherry-picked the basics and moved on. Unlike Rich Dad Poor Dad’s advice, I didn’t have access to time travel to purchase property back in the 1970s, so it felt like that ship had sailed.
Looking back, this photo says everything about where my head was at. Reading the theory, no results yet, and mildly suspicious the whole thing was a con. Was Robert Kiyosaki the original finance bro?
Then The Richest Man in Babylon earns an honourable mention, for handing me the one idea that ended up mattering most: pay yourself first. Deceptively simple, and yet it still holds up today. Pay yourself first: give yourself 10% of everything you make.
Lastly, the book that clicked, and the one I’d feel most comfortable recommending, is The Psychology of Money. It wasn’t about spreadsheets or strategy, it was about how people actually behave with money, why they panic, why they hold on too long or sell too early. That mindset ended up mattering more later than I expected, especially once the kids got involved.
I’d met Phil for coffee that morning, the same Phil behind his tea-making process, one of the old Mero crew I still grab coffee and do the morning quiz with. We were chatting afterwards and I sent him an email to make sure I’d caught everything right: use Sharesies mobile app to buy ETFs, go more aggressive on my risk appetite than I probably wanted to, be prepared to ride the ups and downs. And most of all, speak to an actual financial advisor.
Phil wrote back later that day with advice which ended up mattering most: work out how much risk you’re actually prepared to take, and find an advisor who’ll quiz you on your risk appetite.
Phil’s an educated man, further along on his financial journey than I am. He’s retired now, using Sharesies alongside a managed fund through an advisor, and flies out to see friends and family overseas a few times a year rather than chasing his next contract. He’d looked at the property investing path too, the Robert Kiyosaki approach, and said it never suited him even though it works for plenty of people.
He’s also crafty like a fox, and used to load up his Snapper bus pass with credit back when a few retailers still accepted it as payment, a loophole he happily used to buy craft beers on a Friday, long since closed. I liked the cut of his jib, and knew he was over-qualified for the role of personal financial advisor.
Investing carries a reputation for being risky, and fair enough, there are enough stories out there of people losing the lot to make anyone cautious. What ETFs do differently is spread that risk out. You’re not betting the house on one company having a good year, you’re spread across a basket of them.
Alongside Phil, I found Vincent Chan’s YouTube channel, and it stood out for how calm it was compared to everything else in the genre. His parents had immigrated to the US with almost nothing, and watching them struggle to provide for the family stuck with him. He decided breaking that cycle only needed one person willing to actually do it, so he studied economics and landed a job on Wall Street, then hated most of what the job actually was, helping the rich get richer wasn’t why he’d put himself through any of it. He left to share what he’d learned instead.
That background is probably why the advice felt practical and grounded rather than the loud, salesy energy most finance content leans on, all theatrics and course upsells with nothing real underneath. Maybe you get what you pay for. With Vincent, the free version turned out to be the better one.
Three months later, I found a wallet lying on the footpath on my way to work. I opened it looking for ID, found a business card, looked him up on LinkedIn, a wealth adviser working in town, so I dropped it off at his office reception on my way past.
He messaged that afternoon, properly grateful, offering to buy me a coffee to say thanks. Between the barista course and an espresso machine at home, a free coffee wasn’t exactly going to change my life. Financial advice from an actual professional would. So I saw a gap and took a shot: did his firm work with individuals, or only companies? Ali and I had been meaning to sit down with someone about paying down the mortgage versus investing more.
He passed on a colleague’s details that same afternoon. Ali and I turned up to meet him with our whole financial picture laid out, mortgage, cars, KiwiSaver, the lot. I’d once designed a banking app with a feature literally called financial advisor in your pocket, and here I was chasing down an actual human version of it.
What we got back was pleasant, professional, and almost entirely noncommittal, no real stance either way on paying down the mortgage versus investing more. Turns out a mate who’ll actually tell you what he thinks over a coffee is worth more than a meeting with someone paid to stay neutral.
Part of why I never got round to investing before was the barrier felt higher than it needed to be. Sharesies removed that excuse completely. It’s a platform, on both app and web, that facilitates the trade and takes a small fee, there’s no minimum amount, and you can be set up and actually holding something within minutes. Cash I wanted out of sight and out of mind could become a quick investment instead. Beats dealing with tenants calling to say there’s an issue with the rental property at 3am, and not having any DIY skills to save yourself.
By the time I’d put in over $1,000, Sharesies needed to verify my identity properly, passport details, a selfie, the works. That’s the moment it stopped feeling like a curiosity and started feeling like a real account with real money in it.
Sharesies also just handles finance jargon really well, and that quietly empowers people who’ve never invested before. As a UX/UI designer, I know how much work goes into microcopy like that, every character earning its place, especially on mobile. It’s the kind of clarity that becomes a foothold, something to anchor onto whether you’re navigating an app, or just navigating life.
The trick that actually worked wasn’t a spreadsheet or a budgeting app, it was friction. My money was still mine, still accessible, though Sharesies added just enough of a delay that it made me second guess random purchases before I made them. That tiny gap between wanting something and buying it was often enough to talk myself out of it.
I started applying the same idea everywhere, not unlike 100 days of constraints I once set myself on a design challenge, just aimed at spending instead. Leave something sitting in the cart for 30 days, and if I still wanted it after that, it was probably a good purchase. Most of the time I didn’t. Actually, the fact that I now struggle to think of a single thing I nearly bought is proof the system works. Looking back, a lot of what I used to buy was chasing a quick dopamine hit, and by the time it actually arrived it was never as exciting as the wanting had been. Just money spent on a feeling that had already faded.
Ali and I run a family account that covers anything we do together, and separate personal allowances for coffees, lunches, and whatever else is just for ourselves. Whatever was left in my allowance at the end of the week, I had a choice: spend it or save it. I started choosing a third option, and invested it instead.
I watched my savings climb without having to think about it. There’s a real sweet spot once a habit like that locks in, where it stops needing willpower and just quietly runs in the background.
Once the habit had proven itself, I opened an account for Molly and Charlie too. Early on, they were losing money, which is a strange thing to explain to a kid who’s used to numbers only going up. They panicked, already down $20 in a week, so the three of us sat down and watched a video on compound interest together. The presenter’s message was simple: trust the process, this is the long game, and time is the one advantage you have on your side.
That’s where The Psychology of Money earned its keep. Instead of panicking or pulling the money straight back out, I could pass on the “chill, it works out” mindset the book had given me. Watching the ups and downs without overreacting to them is a useful thing to teach a kid early, long before it’s their own money on the line. Even going to a family “investors dinner” once a year to celebrate.
Markets went through a properly volatile stretch, the kind where the news cycle makes everyone nervous regardless of what they’re actually holding. Around the same time, my own interest started fading, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence.
I still enjoyed buying gold through it all, it had a strange appeal, like an old fashioned 1980s way to invest, something solid you could point to. Stable, or at least it felt that way.
Looking back, the boredom wasn’t really about the market. It was closer to a job finished. I’d taught myself how to invest by actually doing it, and more importantly, the kids were set up with good habits of their own. Once both of those were true, the account had already done what I needed it to do.
Back full circle. My personal Sharesies account is closed for good, and I’m fine with that. It did its job, and I treated the whole thing like a summer internship at a financial start-up.
These days, the investing happens through a joint account with Ali instead. Turns out you can’t open a joint Sharesies account directly, likely something to do with how earnings get taxed, so we route it through our joint bank account instead. Ten percent goes in automatically, and Ali manages it from there.
Pay yourself first, the one idea I took from Babylon, is still running underneath all of it. It just doesn’t need me fussing over it anymore. My personal savings have crept back up too, sitting quietly alongside the mortgage payment, a surfboard I’ve surfed since 2007, and the drum kit I never bought. I ended up selling the original kit I owned as well, since I was hardly using it. Further cementing what I knew back at the beginning, that the $9,000 drum kit would have gathered dust and was a vanity purchase.