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Between mortgage repayments, daycare fees, groceries, kids’ swimming lessons (and weekly Happy Meals to bribe them to go), times are tough financially for young families. I know this first-hand. Not to mention my daughter’s personal squishy syndicate, which would put a kingpin to shame.
A friend and I recently marvelled at how “just ducking to the shops” for staples like bread, yoghurt, milk, eggs, butter – which once upon a time would cost us about $30 – now, somehow, in 2026, hovers criminally around $70.
According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, we’re not imagining the financial strain; groceries remain one of the biggest drivers of inflation. Yet, scrolling through our bank statement one night, I wondered whether we were actually struggling financially, or whether our discretionary spending had gotten out of control. Were our subscriptions to Netflix, Disney+, Binge, Amazon Prime, Apple TV (because Slow Horses is back) and National Theatre at Home (because #culture) an absolute necessity?
In the late 1970s, 40 per cent of Australians with kids under the age of 14 had two employed parents. This had risen to 73 per cent by June last year.
Dual incomes have become not just the norm, but non-negotiable with rising interest rates, petrol prices and stagnant wages. And still, many would argue we live in relative comfort, compared with our parents’ generation.
It’s almost the punchline to a joke about Boomers giving the “back-in-my-day” speech. (“You’re lucky! We lived for three months in a rolled-up newspaper in a septic tank!” to quote the Monty Python sketch.)
When we were a single-income family with babies, we had virtually zero discretionary funds. But now, having eased my way back into the workforce since having kids, I’ve noticed changes in my spending habits. Small comforts I previously couldn’t justify the cost of – such as takeaway and new clothes – now feel like entitlements. I catch myself thinking: I’ve earned this.
Lifestyle creep is a very real phenomenon. “Common culprits include using a significant pay rise to fund a nicer car,” Gemma Mitchell writes in the Australian Financial Review. “The next promotion leads to a larger mortgage … the problem happens when these decisions happen by default rather than design.”
While we haven’t upgraded either house or car, our ever-increasing list of subscriptions, our planned trip to Bali and our weekly takeaway nights are a testament to how lifestyle creep can turn yesterday’s treats into today’s budget baseline. I’m reminded of the Diderot effect, a phenomenon 18th-century philosopher Denis Diderot described in an essay, addressed to “those who have more taste than fortune”.
Upon receiving a luxurious new scarlet dressing gown, Diderot glanced around his room with sudden dismay. The new gown made his existing possessions look so shabby by comparison that he felt compelled to upgrade his desk, his chair and the prints on the wall to match. “Fear the touch of wealth,” he cautioned, recounting how he sank into debt simply trying to keep up with his robe.
Today we may be less interested in scarlet dressing gowns, but we can’t get enough of our $6.50 oat lattes, artisanal sourdough, Uber Eats, boutique Pilates classes, streamers (short for streaming services), or robovacs (if you don’t already have one, they’re the robotic vacuum cleaners that do the work while you’re subscribing to a new streamer).
Maybe these are the micro-luxuries we turn to because we’re so tired, so anxious, or because the AI apocalypse is coming, and we may as well go out with our emotional-support drink bottle and overpriced latte in hand. Either way, we’re trapped on Diderot’s treadmill: working twice as hard while paying top dollar for luxuries that make working hard bearable.
We might be broke, but good luck convincing us to cancel Apple TV. At this point, Slow Horses should be a tax write-off.
Cherie Gilmour is a freelance writer.
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