by Erika Matić, owner of one immortal Toyota and several unpopular financial opinions
My sister needs a new car. Not because she wants one. Not because she dreams of leather seats, mood lighting, or a dashboard that greets her like a loyal assistant.
But because her current car has reached that sacred mechanical stage known as: financially unreasonable to resurrect.
So she did what any responsible adult in 2026 does. She opened the Internet and entered the haunted marketplace of Used Cars – a place where mileage is fictional, prices are philosophical, and every listing says “drives perfectly” in the same tone people say “I’m fine” during emotional collapse.
And there it was.
Reality.
Used cars – expensive.
New cars – absurd.
Loans – smiling politely from every corner like debt-shaped ghosts.
Meanwhile, I sat in my 2008 Toyota Corolla Verso, listening to a CD like it’s 2009, manually negotiating with my broken window, and thought: This is enough.
My Car Is Old, Loud, and Emotionally Stable
My car has around 400,000 kilometres.
It rattles.
It hums.
It occasionally sounds like it is remembering things from the war.
It still has a CD player, which means it belongs in a museum or a Balkan wedding.
And yet – it starts.
Every day.
No drama.
No existential crisis.
No subscription fee.
Just: Let’s go.
Also, my car has developed personality traits. It makes mysterious noises only when a mechanic isn’t present. The fuel light comes on purely for psychological manipulation. And the radio – permanently stuck somewhere between radio and CD player – plays either static or that one old CD I always mean to change, but since it’s already playing, I just let it loop, depending on how fragile I feel that day. We understand each other. This is no longer transportation. This is a long-term relationship with trust issues.
I did not choose this car for status.
I don’t have it to impress my neighbours.
Nobody has ever looked at it and whispered, “Wow.”
But it has carried:
- Groceries.
- Tears.
- Road trips.
- Arguments.
- Laughter.
- A whole chapter of my life.
This car has seen more reality than most luxury SUVs parked outside cafes for display purposes only. And when its time comes (because even legends retire) my husband and I will do something radical: We will buy… another used car.
Reliable.
Unimpressive.
Financially non-traumatising.
Revolutionary, I know.
The Religion of Shiny Things
Somewhere along the way, society decided happiness comes with monthly instalments.
- Bigger car.
- New phone.
- Better kitchen.
- Softer towels.
- More expensive coffee machine that makes coffee slightly worse but emotionally superior.
People are not buying things anymore. They are buying identities.
- “I am successful.”
- “I am modern.”
- “I am not falling behind.”
- “I am worthy of leather seats.”
And the bank – our quiet life partner – nods gently and says: “You deserve this. For only 420€ a month. Until death.”
Romantic.
The Loan Lifestyle
Here is the modern adult experience:
- You wake up.
- You go to work.
- You pay bills.
- You pay loans.
- You calculate whether buying cheese this week is emotionally responsible.
- You repeat.
Freedom has quietly been replaced by manageable monthly suffering. And the strangest part? We normalised it.
Debt is no longer an emergency. It is a lifestyle accessory.
“Do you even exist if you don’t owe the bank something?”
Meanwhile, at the House of Enough
Our house is not fancy. Our car is old. Our clothes are normal. Our furniture has personality (by personality, I mean scratches). We do not live minimally. We live intentionally.
We spend on:
- Travel.
- Food.
- Home.
- Peace.
- The future.
And no – we are not saints of financial discipline.
- I love Apple products.
- I buy clothes I don’t need.
- I own cosmetics that could survive an apocalypse.
- I willingly pay ridiculous money for protein powder that tastes like optimistic dust.
But here’s the difference: These things are extras. Not foundations.
If they disappeared tomorrow, my life would still feel full. Because the real wealth in this house is not visible on Instagram.
It is:
- Warm light in the evening.
- My husband’s presence.
- My daughter’s laughter.
- A fridge that is not empty.
- A home that feels safe.
Luxury cannot replicate that.
The Great Illusion of “More”
People often assume “more” equals “better.”
- More money.
- More things.
- More upgrades.
- More proof that life is going well.
But here is the quiet truth nobody advertises – More often equals:
- More stress.
- More payments.
- More pressure.
- More fear of losing it.
Because when your happiness depends on what you own, peace becomes fragile. And fragile happiness is expensive to maintain.
Do People Feel Better When They Show Off?
Sometimes, yes. For a moment.
Humans like validation. We like signals of success. We like feeling ahead, admired, secure. But showing off is a temporary drug. Peace is a long-term state.
One fades quickly.
The other builds slowly.
And only one lets you sleep without calculating interest rates at 2 AM.
The Real Question: What Is Freedom?
Is freedom:
- Driving a brand-new car you don’t fully own?
- Or driving an old one that owes nobody anything?
Is freedom:
- Having everything now?
- Or needing less – and fearing less?
Is freedom:
- Looking rich?
- Or feeling calm?
I don’t judge people who choose differently. Life is heavy. Everyone copes somehow. Some buy comfort. Some buy security. Some buy symbols of progress.
But for me – freedom is simple:
- No heavy debt.
- No endless chase.
- No need to impress strangers.
Just enough.
And peace.
The Soft Truth Beneath the Satire
One day, my Toyota will stop.
One day, we will buy another used car.
One day, something in life will break, change, or demand more than we planned.
Because life always does.
But when I look around – at my home, my family, the quiet stability we built slowly, imperfectly, intentionally – I realise something powerful: Happiness was never in the upgrade.
It was in the enough.
- Enough love.
- Enough safety.
- Enough food.
- Enough hope.
We live in a world constantly whispering: “More. Faster. Better. Now.” But peace speaks differently.
It says: “You are already okay.”
And maybe – in a noisy world obsessed with shiny things – choosing enough is the most radical luxury of all.
Erika Matić is a Croatian writer reflecting on culture, priorities, modern consumerism, and the quiet rebellion of living simply in a world obsessed with more. She writes about family, money, identity, and emotional resilience – blending satire, sincerity, and everyday reality into stories about what truly makes a life feel rich.
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