How I’m Dealing with (Financial) Fraud-y Feelings

AKA: FUUUUCK. I’ve been hacked.

Dearest Reader,

I’d planned to send you an edition of The Practice this week—one all about holistic vision care. But instead, I spent last Saturday (the day I’d blocked off to finish it) crying and unceremoniously losing my shit over bank fraud. Is that the right term when someone steals your banking info and tries to drain your account on Netflix, gaming sites, and Domino’s Pizza? I think so.

Anyway, here we are.

The vision edition of The Practice is coming soon. But for now, because I want to talk through: 1. what just happened, and 2. my decidedly un-Buddhist, un-stoic reaction…

Here’s a bonus letter we’ll file under the (very occasional, extra personal) Financial Sobriety series.

First, let’s take a moment to appreciate the Universe’s wry sense of humor. I mean, there’s the obvious: I only recently broke a five-year TV fast (thanks to Thai dramas), I’ve never gamed online in my life, and I’m not exactly chowing down on Domino’s pizza.

But also, I was starting my day as I usually do: up at dawn with the cats and roosters, a little yoga, coffee in hand, reading the Tao. A picture of calm and serenity.

No kidding—I was on this exact chapter:

“Fame or self: Which matters more?
Self or wealth: Which is more precious?
Gain or loss: Which is more painful?

He who is attached to things will suffer much.
He who saves will suffer heavy loss.
A contented man is never disappointed.
He who knows when to stop does not find himself in trouble.
He will stay forever safe.”

—Tao Te Ching, Ch. 44, Lao Tsu, trans. Gia-Fu Feng & Jane English

“Forever safe” echoing in my mind, I set the book to one side, opened my laptop, logged into email—and boom. An alert from my bank. Subject line: “CIBC transaction verification is required.” A $210.75 charge at Domino’s.

I won’t belabor what came next, but let’s just say this: when your bank’s midnight is your 11 a.m. the next day, and popping into a branch or getting a replacement card isn’t a fast, easy option, fraud comes with a few bonus challenges.

The following hours dissolved into phone calls—put on hold, passed around, told I’d have to call back later. Frustrating? Yes. But predictable—and, as my partner noted, just how things go these days (though I’d advise against making that point when your wife is in meltdown).

What’s far more interesting is what this unearthed in me: hot tears, righteous outrage, and a full-on scene of self-flagellation. My rational mind—my Buddhist-practicing mind—watched it unfold. Those wiser parts stayed calm, aware, even amused and impressed by their clarity.

They saw everything. The whole fucking spectacle.

Because while I could still access my Inner Observer, another part of me very consciously, very deliberately, and dare I say exuberantly told that Observer: Thank you. And now you can go fuck right off.

What followed next? Stuff straight out of a twelve-year-old’s playbook.

The deepest, most visceral, most core part of my being was flooded with two different feelings at once: the sense that I’d been violated and was exposed and unsafe, and the equally powerful conviction that this was somehow my fault.

You see, I’m someone who obsessive-compulsively checks my bank accounts daily, tracking every cent in and out. I live very minimally—regulars know we moved to Thailand with just cats and our carry-ons. Freed from Canada’s outrageous housing and food costs, I’ve even eliminated credit card debt and managed to save. Yet, in crept those voices:

You’re bad with money.
You don’t deserve it.
You actually thought you could break this scarcity cycle? HA.
This is your karma, bitch.

With those voices screaming in my head and survival fear flooding my body, I wasn’t exactly channeling my teacher Gil Fronsdal. Not with my partner (who was going above and beyond trying to help). Not with my cats (who vibrate at my frequency and were now freaking out). And definitely not with CIBC’s fraud department.

Thankfully, one CIBC representative was a cross between a hostage negotiator and a mental health hotline. With his slow British cadence and a voice so inexplicably sexy my partner’s and my jaws dropped when we heard it, he talked me down from the precipice and got me to focus.

Calmly, sexily, he guided me, item by item, through a horrifying scroll of fraudulent charges. NETFLIX*COM – $1.00, LVLUP-BOOST – $4.56, RETAIL PURCHASE SENDWAVE – $100.00, etc. Then, like a financial fraud first responder, he mapped out my next steps.

I spent the next couple of hours doing all that I could. Then I tried to reset—more yoga, a cold shower, an extra-slow lunch while reading something mindlessly lulling. It helped.

Until.

Know what I did before the last bite hit my stomach? Threw myself into work I’d typically save for Monday through Friday. Normally, weekends are sacred for this newsletter—my heart’s work, the writing I want to sustain me. But in that moment, scarcity-fueled fear had latched on.

The Observer—the one circling above, wise and all-seeing—tried to step in: Hey, how about we slow down? Process this. Remember, “working harder” doesn’t solve everything.

My response? I thought I told you to fuck off. There’s no time for that now. I’ll deal with you later.

I was still feeling so frantic, so threatened, so weirdly responsible, that I regressed to a very old default: head down, work harder, hustle more… then more. Desperately trying to outrun the existential dread and self-doubt at my heels.

And while Sexy CIBC Man and my partner both assured me the money would be recovered, some ingrained, hardwired part of me kept hissing: Yeah, right. That’s what they always say. You’ll never get that money back. You thought you could get ahead? Nope. Kiss those extra funds you worked so hard for goodbye.

To be fair, the only other time my accounts were hacked—my Tangerine card earlier this year—they never fixed it or reimbursed me. But this goes deeper than that. This hits at wounds, beliefs, and patterns so deep, so much a part of how I operate, that I wonder if I’ll ever be free of them.

Because, yes, I could end this letter by saying all the right things. I could rattle off and bullet point a tidy list of routines and practices to create space between us and our patterns. But you know what? I’m doing all those things. And I’m still right here in it.

So instead of self-helping you today, I mostly want to say: FUUUCK. This being human stuff, man—wow, what a ride. It gives us so much to practice with.

Being able to write my way through it helps, though—even more than expected. Thank you for being here reading and witnessing.

And fine, a tiny piece of self-help: if you find yourself in a similar spot—observing limiting beliefs and old patterns kick in—I highly recommend doing what I’m doing and writing it out. In a letter, in your journal, or on a scrap of paper you burn and release.

Then safeguard your accounts, and go read the Tao.

“Accept disgrace willingly.
Accept misfortune as the human condition.

What do you mean by ‘Accept disgrace willingly?’
Accept being unimportant.
Do not be concerned with loss or gain.
This is called ‘accepting disgrace willingly.’

What do you mean by ‘Accept misfortune as the human condition?’
Misfortune comes from having a body.
Without a body, how could there be misfortune?

Surrender yourself humbly; then you can be trusted to care for all things.
Love the world as your own self; then you can truly care for all things.”

—Lao Tsu, Ch. 13

Have you been frauded? How did it feel? Let’s commiserate in the comments!

And before you go, could please do me a favor and tap the little ♡? The more people who discover and support this newsletter, the more time I can devote to creating it.

With love,
Dana

Endnote on “fraud-y feelings”: I first heard this term (in the context of imposter syndrome) from Emily Thompson and Kathleen Shannon on the Being Boss podcast, which I devoured years ago and wholeheartedly recommend.

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