I Had $100,000 in Debt. So I Moved Into My Car.
When I was a master’s student in organizational development at HEC Montréal in the late 2010s, I wasn’t worried about money. I was living off a $31,000 line of credit from Desjardins and a student loan of $49,000, and I used that to pay my tuition and cover my expenses for eight years of schooling. I believed two things: I would graduate with a lot of debt, and I would have no problem paying it off. I figured that a starting salary in a management or business role would amount to about $60,000, and that I’d be able to repay my debt in a few years. I was incredibly naive.
I could have been more proactive at tackling my debt when I was younger. Instead, I focused my energy on school, setting aside all thoughts of my financial future. I know now I should have worked a part-time job while I was a student, especially during my master’s degree, instead of dedicating all my spare time to classes and campus life. I also could have been wiser about my student loan: I’ve heard of some people who invest that money as soon as they receive it, so that they can bank the interest until they have to make payments.
I also wasn’t prepared for the challenges of the working world. When you’re a student, professors and academic advisers don’t tell you how difficult it can be to land on your feet and figure out your finances once you leave school. The first time I was startled by my debt was when it reached $50,000. I thought, That’s a full year’s salary. But debt was common in my group of friends. I figured it was just part of being a student. I finished my studies in 2021 when I was 30, carrying a line of credit, my student loan and $10,000 of credit card debt. Within two years, I had incurred $13,000 more in credit card bills and an income tax debt of $1,100. Altogether, I owed approximately $97,000.
The pressure hit me soon after graduation. Students have a grace period of six months after university before they have to make payments against their debt. Mine began at $400 per month, and the sudden additional expense was a huge burden. At the time I was living in Blainville, a Montreal suburb 20 minutes south of my childhood home. My first full-time job, as a recruiter at a large grocery chain, netted me $35,000 per year—a salary so paltry that I had to supplement it by delivering takeout food with Uber Eats to earn an extra $1,000 per month.
I loved my job, but I was consumed with anxiety about money. At that point, I was in a long-term relationship with a woman I’d met six years earlier while doing my bachelor’s degree. Even though we didn’t live together, financial terror crept into our relationship. Going out on a dinner date, planning a weekend trip or even buying groceries made me sick to my stomach. I was in total control mode: we would split the bill, and it stressed me out to buy certain food items that she liked and I didn’t. My constant worry led to conflict. Soon, we ended up in couples therapy (another expense). By this point, the wedge between us was too big to overcome. Eventually, we broke up.
In the spring of 2023, I accepted a new role as a business consultant, with a salary of $60,000. I thought, Great, I can finally start to pay my debt. But even that wasn’t enough. After taxes, I made $3,100 per month. That amount quickly evaporated when I made my minimum monthly debt payments, which, given the high interest rates, had reached $2,200. I only had $900 left to cover food, car payments, insurance and rent, which was $650 for a room in my friend’s two-bedroom house.
To supplement my income, I kept delivering food for 25 hours per week on top of my full-time job. On average, I worked 65 hours per week; otherwise I would have been in the red. The system wasn’t perfect: I knew that my job would eventually require me to travel to remote parts of Quebec to do projects with First Nations, which would prevent me from delivering. Juggling two jobs completely stressed me out.
My side gig also forced me to skimp on downtime. My sleep schedule was sporadic—I only got five or six hours per night, which robbed me of the mental acuity that my full-time gig required. Every Monday morning, we had a scrum meeting, where each employee would share what they did over the weekend and discuss their priorities for the week. Many of my colleagues would talk about trips, shows or dining out. I was the only one saying I had done 20 hours of deliveries. Once, I was offered a business trip to Mistissini, a Cree community in northern Quebec. I knew I needed to establish myself within the team and demonstrate my commitment, but I didn’t want to lose delivery hours and was too exhausted to travel. I passed on the trip.
My money troubles got so bad that I left my consultant job later that year to do deliveries full-time. I figured that, because food delivery was less mentally taxing, I could do it for 70 hours per week without stressing myself out. I started working huge hours with Uber Eats, SkipTheDishes and DoorDash throughout 2023 and the first half of 2024. I had paid off about $7,000 of my student loan and line of credit, but still I wasn’t making any progress—my credit card debt was increasing at roughly the same rate I was paying off my loans.
The long hours took a hit on my social life. After so much time on the road making deliveries, I was too tired to hang out with friends, go for dinner at my parents’ house, have any kind of fun. I often had to decline invitations because they were during prime delivery times, like Friday nights. I was a shell of a human, convinced I would never solve my money problems without destroying myself in the process.
in the past few years, many Canadians have fallen into sinkholes of debt. They’re now the norm rather than the exception: Canada has a worse debt-to-income ratio than any other G7 country, with a total consumer debt of $2.5 trillion. That’s more than Canada’s GDP. In an era of housing shortages, high interest rates and rising grocery costs, it’s become both normal and necessary for people to take on debt just to get by. That’s especially true for students, who owe an average of $28,000 when they graduate—and more if they pursue graduate studies. Tuition isn’t the only problem; it’s remained relatively stable over the last decade. What pulls students into the hole is the cost of everything else.
Higher education was supposed to be an investment in my future. But now students like me are stuck paying off their debts over years or even decades. This is largely due to the mismatch between the high cost of education and low, stagnating starting wages: on average, Canadians aged 25 to 34 earn $45,000 a year. After covering basic expenses, there is barely any money left to service a debt.
In June of this year, my roommate decided he wanted his own space, so I planned to move out. I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford a decent rental in Blainville: most one-bedroom apartments cost $1,200 or more, even in my sleepy suburb. Around that time, I had started seeing someone new. Once again, my financial anxiety got in the way of my romantic life. She broke up with me: she felt I was behind in life and was not convinced that I would ever catch up with her on a financial level. I became consumed with scary thoughts: if I did not figure out my financial situation now, how long would this debt be a burden? Would it destroy my future family? Would it prevent me from living my life, seeing the world, caring for people I love?
I was obsessed with paying it off, but I was already working as many hours as I could handle. Instead, I thought about how I could lower my expenses. I had an idea: what if I waited three months before signing another lease and used that rent money to pay my debt? Easy enough—I had friends who would have let me squat at their place for a while, and my parents, who live nearby, would have gladly taken me in. But I wanted to treat this period as a challenge, to prove to myself that I could accomplish hard things. Around that time, I was following a YouTuber named Michael Hickey, who made videos showing how he lived frugally out of his car. I decided to do the same thing.
Of course, when I mentioned the idea to my folks, they thought I was insane. What parent wants to see their 33-year-old son live out of a car, especially when there’s space for him at home? My mother worried for my safety and wanted to make sure I was in my right mind. I reassured her, and others in my inner circle, that I was just fine, that I was doing this challenge for myself and that I would limit my experiment to 90 days to give myself a finish line.
Privately, I shared some of their concerns. Living in a car didn’t seem hygienic or safe—where would I shower and wash my clothes? How would I deal with the summer heat without a home? But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Most of the previous challenges in my life were academic. Living in my car for several months would force me to work on different strengths, like frugality and grit.
In preparation, I worked extra delivery hours to accumulate an emergency fund of $1,000. I downloaded two apps, Park4Night and iOverlander, which helped me find local laundromats, aquatic centres and municipal pools that offered free showers. I also bought a sunshade for the windshield to block sunlight in the morning, a new pillow that was more comfortable than the one I had in my apartment and a plush blanket to keep warm. Fully equipped, I moved into my 2013 Kia Rio hatchback at the beginning of July.
The first few days were a breeze. I was already a delivery guy, so my day-to-day life didn’t change that much. I quickly developed a routine: I went to McDonald’s and ordered an iced coffee and a cup of hot water to mix with oatmeal packets that I bought in bulk at the supermarket. I did a few deliveries in the morning and then returned to McDonald’s for a chicken wrap, which cost $4. After lunch, I delivered until dinnertime and then looked for dinner on an app called Too Good To Go, where grocers and restaurants sell massively discounted food that’s a day away from going to the dump. I often bought from a Mediterranean place called Amir, which sells a huge plate of potatoes, beef, garlic sauce, vegetables and rice for $6. I usually ate for around $10 per day.
I mastered the art of sleeping in my car: I put the sun tarp over my windshield to block out the outside world, folded down the back seat and reclined the driver’s seat all the way back. I’d read online that overnight parking was permitted at a local lot, so I slept there for the first month. Around day 40, a police officer woke me up in the morning. Somebody had reported me because they thought I was a threat. I explained to the police officer what I was doing, and he just laughed and said, “Well, then I’m not sure why I’m here.” Ten days later, another officer approached me at 3 a.m., saying he had noticed my presence over the past few days and that overnight parking was prohibited. I relocated to a Walmart parking lot nearby.
I only packed one suitcase of clothes. I washed them at public laundromats every few days. It’s $4 to wash a load and $1 per 12 minutes of drying. My other expenses included gas, which set me back around $200 per week, and a storage locker for whatever I couldn’t fit into the car for $150 per month. Meanwhile, I worked between 60 and 70 hours per week, either driving or scouting out deliveries online, and that netted me about $160 daily. I ended up saving around $100 per day: on my 48th day, I had already put $5,000 against my debt.
One of the biggest challenges was to find a place to consistently shower. I started by using my friend’s gym membership, but it expired after three weeks. Soon after, I left Blainville to try the delivery market in Sherbrooke, where I could take free showers at one of their municipal parks. When I returned, I showered all over the place: friends’ houses, my parents’ house. If I ever attended an evening party at a friend’s house, I showered there before it began. I tried to bathe several times per week and always carried a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant and cologne; hygiene is crucial when dealing with customers.
I documented the entire journey on social media, which made it a lot more fun. Since 2022, I’ve been managing a TikTok account, where I share tips and tricks about the delivery industry: how to avoid accepting deliveries that will put you in a traffic jam and waste time, for example, or why maintaining good relationships with restaurant staff might help your orders move faster. When I moved into my car, I transformed the account into a daily vlog about how it all works. I didn’t expect the channel to gain so much traction: I’ve even been recognized and cheered on by followers in restaurants when I’m picking up food. It’s become a great way to connect with people. Some people have asked me if I pulled this entire stunt for the clicks, but it’s not like that. I’m documenting this experience on social media to hold myself accountable. I have 5,000 people watching me—I can’t give up now.
There are rough days on the road. Once, I was out making deliveries in a town with poor network coverage. I was exhausted, so I pulled over to take a nap. It was extremely hot so, instead of wasting gas by keeping the engine running, I switched my car to accessory mode and left the air conditioning and music on. I also put on my hazard lights in order to avoid any issues with the police. I slept that way for an hour and a half and, when I woke up, the car battery was dead. With no network coverage in the area, I couldn’t call for roadside assistance. So I had to walk until I reached a spot with better reception, where I was finally able to call for help. It took an hour for someone to come and jump-start my battery. In total, I lost about three to four hours that day.
But I allow myself to revel in the small wins: on day 66, to reward myself for saving well, I bought a gym membership at Éconofitness. Now, I have a regular place to work out and shower. Another time, I was delivering a pizza in Sherbrooke and I started chatting with the clients, four men about my age, at their door. Once I told them about my living situation, they asked me if I wanted to stay for pizza and beer. I said, “Yeah, why not?” We had a great evening and swapped contact information.
I’m proud to say my plan is working. I’m well on my way to paying off my $13,000 and $9,500 credit card debts, which combined are costing me around $1,000 per month in minimum payments. I will not entirely service those debts while living in my car, but I plan to adopt some of my frugal tips and tricks when I become a renter again and continue paying the rest of my debt. This period has also taught me how to live off very little money; I am planning to make that a future theme of my TikTok, even after I become housed again. I’m likely going to get a new apartment later this fall, when the weather gets too cold to sleep outside.
Overall, I’ll probably pay off about $10,000 of my debt by the time I move out of my car. That will make a good dent in the balance, but this project has been about more than that. It’s made me realize I can be resilient and resourceful, that I can live happily without spending a lot of money. Most importantly, it has given me hope that, in time and probably through less extreme measures, I will find a way to pay my debt in full. I hope to keep sharing that journey with the world. People love an underdog.
This story appears in the November issue of Maclean’s. You can buy the issue here, subscribe to the magazine here or send a gift subscription here.