The American dream — like a beloved pair of pants you left in the dryer too long — is shrinking.

The idealized image of American life we know today was crystallized in the country's collective imagination in the 1930s. Since then, the idea that anyone can obtain a life that has the house with the white picket fence, 2.5 children, a lucrative career at an office that's a reasonable distance away, and the occasional trip to an enviable vacation spot has loomed large in nearly every facet of cultural and political life.

There's just one problem: The once expansive vision is getting smaller. Not only is it harder to grab a piece of it, like a bag of chips or a roll of toilet paper that has less substance every time you buy it, but even nominally achieving the dream is leaving people unsatisfied. Americans are having fewer kids, their houses are getting smaller, they're schlepping further to work, and they're spending less time on vacation.

Americans are taking notice of the diminishing returns. Among the 8,709 US adults surveyed by the Pew Research Center from April 8 to 14, 41% said that achieving the American dream was once possible but no longer. That's particularly true for younger Americans; 18- to 29-year-olds were the most likely to say that the American dream was never possible, and only 39% said that it's still possible. Their millennial counterparts felt similarly, though they were slightly more bullish on the possibility of the American dream.

At the same time, Americans are increasingly less satisfied with their personal lives, Gallup polling from January found. The share of Americans who are "very satisfied" with their personal lives has been plummeting, the poll found, and sits near record lows — other times it's gotten this bad were during the economic crisis of 2008 and its fallout in the following years. And even among those who might have achieved the American dream — higher earners with college degrees — life satisfaction has slipped.

Call it the shrinkflation of the American dream.

The central element of the American dream is owning a house. Having a roof over your head is the cornerstone of security and stability; research has found homeowners are less stressed than their renter counterparts, and beyond having a place that they can call their own, they have growing equity. But nowadays, the homes that many Americans live in rarely have enough room for a big dog — much less a picket fence.

In 2013, the median square footage of a new single-family housing unit was about 2,460. In 2015, new homes peaked at about 2,470 square feet — and then spent the next six years shrinking. In 2021, homes started to slowly get bigger again, and then they once again constricted. By 2023, the figure had fallen to about 2,180 square feet. An analysis by the National Association of Home Builders found that the share of single-family homes built with two bedrooms or fewer hit its highest level since 2012 — and the share of new homes built with four bedrooms fell to its lowest level since 2012.

Of course, homes getting a little smaller isn't necessarily a bad thing — many advocates for increasing the housing supply argue that the dedication to giant homes has made it tougher to build the number of new units that the country needs. But shrinking homes are coupled with another biting reality: Americans are paying more for less. In the same period that Americans have seen their homes shrink, home prices have grown by nearly $200,000. The median listing price per square foot was $127 in 2016; by 2024, that rose to $224 — meaning Americans were shelling out more per square foot, even as their square footage decreased. By one measure, Americans now need to work 110 hours a month to be able to afford their mortgages — meaning mortgages eat up the bulk of their earnings.

With those prices, it's no wonder first-time homebuyers are older than ever. The National Association of Realtors found that the median age of first-time homebuyers hit 38 in 2024, a record high. In 1981, the median age of a first-time buyer was 29; in 2014, it was 31.

It's not all peaches and rainbows for American renters, either. The median rent price in the US is $2,035, Zillow found. Rent.com, meanwhile, found that median rental asking prices hit about $1,619 in October. That's nearly a $300 increase from May 2019. So if renters are paying more, surely they're still at least getting some bang for their buck? Nope, apartments are getting smaller, too. In 2016, the median square footage of a new unit in a building that had two or more units was 1,105 square feet. Apartments have been shrinking since then: In 2023, new units were clocking in at a median of 1,020 square feet — and the measure reached its lowest recorded level in 2021 as housing prices and demand soared.

A house is just a house until there are people in it; only then, the saying goes, is it a home. But increasingly, American homes are occupied by fewer people. Not only is there a slight rise in single people buying a house, but also the pitter-patter of babies' feet is becoming less common in the hallways of American homes these days. The share of homebuyers without a child under 18 in the house rose to a new high of 73%. That comes as Americans are having fewer kids: The average number of births per woman in the US has fallen from nearly four in 1960 to 1.7 in 2022.

It should come as no surprise that Americans are having fewer children given the economic and social pressures working against them. If it's hard for anyone to break into the ranks of homeowners, it's even more difficult for parents. Housing costs aren't the only deterrent, young parents are also floundering amid rising childcare costs and the loss of the social connections that are critical to raising kids. At the same time, more Americans seem to be on board with choosing to go child-free. DINKs — double-income, no-kid couples — have been on the cultural rise. But just because it's harder for people with kids and more acceptable to forgo them doesn't mean that people are giving up on starting a family. Many Americans want to have children or have even more kids, but it's out of reach.

Karen Benjamin Guzzo, a professor at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill who's researched the gap between the number of children Americans intend to have versus their ultimate childbearing, told me that having kids is often seen as the "last step" in accomplishing the American dream. You go to college, you line up a good job, you get married, you buy a house, and then you fill it with kids. There's a problem, though. "Every step along the way has become less and less predictable," she said.

Guzzo's research has found, in part, that Americans still expect to have children — they just don't actually have them. The way Guzzo describes it is many Americans want kids, but with an asterisk: They want kids if they can find a good partner, a good job with family leave and enough pay to afford childcare, and so on.

"People need to feel confident that the next 25 years of their lives and the world in which their children will be raised and growing and becoming adults on their own. They need to feel confident about those," Guzzo said. "And we do not do a good job right now in the United States of making people feel confident about their futures."

Part of the American dream is the ability to actually enjoy it. You can come home for dinner, spend a nice evening with your family, and maybe enjoy some ice cream in front of the TV before heading to bed at a reasonable hour.

Unfortunately, for many people, the free time is getting sapped by a mind-numbing commute. The average travel time to work in 1990 was 22.4 minutes one way. By 2023, it rose to 26.8 minutes. That may not sound like a lot, but that adds up to nearly 4.5 hours a week just commuting to work, or about 10 days a year, assuming they went in every workday. Even if they're going into the office three days a week, that's still nearly 2.7 hours a week commuting, or the equivalent of almost 6 full days a year. Meanwhile, in 1990, Americans spent just about 3.7 hours a week commuting — about 44 minutes less a week. That's a whole episode of "Real Housewives." Even on a small scale, research has found that every minute added to a commute can reduce one's satisfaction with both their job and their leisure time. Most Americans commuting are doing so by car, which can also weigh on workers' mental health — and how well they're sleeping.

And as more Americans have moved away from urban cores — perhaps in pursuit of buying a house in cheaper areas — they're living farther from work. Young families, in particular, have fled larger urban areas and are finding themselves in the farthest reaches of suburbia. If you want the American dream of that larger, cheaper house, you might be paying for it in minutes stuck behind the wheel.

Reveling in the American dream also includes unwinding away from that house and job. But even as more Americans have access to paid vacation, that doesn't mean they're taking it. In July 1980, over 10 million working Americans were on vacation. At the height of the pandemic, that number had halved. And even as more Americans went on vacation in July post-2020, the number of workers vacationing in July has essentially plateaued over the past few years.

As The Washington Post found in an extensive analysis of eroding vacation time, some of that might be chalked up to another form of shrinkflation: Workers saving their vacation days for when they're feeling sick. In a very Dickensian twist, Americans might not be going on vacation because they're too busy being sick or caring for their ill kids instead.

All of this is not to say that the American dream has gone extinct, but there's a marked shift from the idea that things will get better for each successive generation. In a country where growth, expansion, and constantly improving your lot — and your family's lot — are North Stars, a diminishing and sickly American dream is a bit of an existential downer.

After all, in a March 2023 survey of 1,019 American adults by The Wall Street Journal and NORC, 78% of respondents said they were not confident that life would be better for their kids' generation. The share not confident their kids' lives will be better has soared over the past few decades; in 2000 just 42% said the same. In short: Many Americans are feeling like the dream is slipping through their fingers.

Guzzo said that we're seeing a bifurcation of the American dream. For the ultrawealthy, the ability to accumulate the markers of the dream has never been easier. The top 1% holds just over 13% of all real estate by dollar value in the US, while the bottom 50% holds just about 10%. And, as the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta recounted in its December Beige Book round-up, lower- and middle-income consumers are scaling back their vacation plans; they're renting homes for multiple families and eating in rather than splashing out on hotels or fancy restaurants. Instead, the strength in tourism spending comes from those higher-income consumers exploring and going on cruises. For Americans in the middle, those who might have the college degree and career that could set them on that trajectory, the dream is still possible, though it may come later in life. But Guzzo said others, especially younger men without college degrees, feel the American dream has been pulled out from beneath them.

At the same time, there's a bittersweet parallel running alongside the shrinking of the American dream. For decades, things like homeownership or formal recognition of marriage were out of grasp — and, in some cases, expressly forbidden — for many marginalized groups. It's only in recent history that LGBTQ+ Americans and Americans of color have been able to somewhat catch up to their straight and white peers. But now that the American dream is within reach for these people, it's already shrinking.

Juliana Kaplan is a senior labor and inequality reporter on Business Insider's economy team.

On April 27, 2023, Diana Kulyk's father told her he was leaving the next day to start training to fight Russia. She was filled with dread but knew she needed to act. Her hands shaking, Kulyk, a 24-year-old only child, tried to type the perfect tweet that would convince her roughly 20,000 followers to donate more than $3,000 for equipment that would help keep her father alive.

"Hello, this is the most important tweet I have ever written," she began. "I'm Diana Kulyk, daughter of Ruslan Kulyk. My father is a simple man, a baker by profession, a human being full of love and care. The person who took care of me since I came into this world. He needs help." Beneath the text were two images: a selfie of Diana and Ruslan smiling under golden-hour sunlight, and a spreadsheet of equipment she'd determined her father needed for the battlefield, including steel body armor, a tactical headset, a ballistic helmet, and a sleep mat.

Diana had already raised about $30,000 over the previous year to buy protective gear for childhood friends fighting in Ukraine. Within two hours of posting about her father, she had raised enough to buy all 21 items on the spreadsheet. The donors came from all over: Ukraine, the United States, Germany, England.

Watching the donations flood in, Diana was overwhelmed. "It was a really weird moment," she says. "You are so scared, but also you see everyone coming together to help you. It gives you hope."

Diana's efforts are part of an immense crowdfunding movement helping fuel Ukraine's fight against Russia's far larger and more advanced military. The Ukrainian government has its own crowdsourcing platforms, like United24, which has raised more than $761 million to pay for things like ambulances and demining equipment and to reconstruct destroyed buildings. Individual military units are using social media to campaign for the specific gear they need on the front lines. The 79th Separate Airborne Assault Brigade, for example, has used Instagram to gather donations for reconnaissance drones, generators, and night-vision goggles. And thousands of volunteers are raising funds to directly supply their loved ones on the battlefield with walkie-talkies, combat boots, Starlink internet satellites, medical supplies, ammunition, tanks, and phone chargers.

People have crowdfunded wars throughout history. In World War II, the Supermarine Spitfire, a British fighter aircraft, was largely financed by bake sales and fundraisers at primary schools. But never have funds been raised so easily, quickly, widely, and strategically by civilians and individual troops, says Keir Giles, a defense expert at the think tank Chatham House. "That's a big advantage," he says. With the modern tools of social media, influencer marketing tactics, crowdfunding platforms, and frontline postal services, "units can campaign for precisely the equipment and weapons they need and have them delivered."

Benjamin Jensen, a war-strategy expert at the Center for Strategic and International Studies, describes this crowdfunding as a "game changer." People around the world, he says, are directly "buying commercial off-the-shelf capability to enhance combat power on the battlefield," often acting much more nimbly than the military.

Crowdfunding is also increasingly critical. While Western nations have contributed nearly $300 billion worth of aid, Ukraine's military has repeatedly suffered from shortages of key weaponry and defense equipment. Three grueling years in, several countries and leaders are weighing whether they'll continue their support — including the United States and President-elect Donald Trump, a frequent critic of US aid to Ukraine. The Ukrainian government said last year that crowdfunding accounted for 3% of the country's total military spending. To win the war, that number may need to climb. But fundraisers are struggling with fatigue among citizen donors and are getting creative to keep up funds and morale.

Before the war, Ruslan Kulyk was a pastry chef who made wedding cakes in Spain, where the family immigrated when Diana was young. When the wedding industry slowed in the winter, he visited family in Ukraine's northeastern Sumy region. On February 24, 2022, he was preparing to return to Spain when Vladimir Putin launched Russia's full-scale invasion. Landlocked and infuriated, he joined his nephew at the military registration office. Recruiters enlisted his nephew but turned Ruslan away. "I wasn't prepared and was 50 years old," he says.

He got a job at a local bakery. He trained hard, dropping more than 50 pounds in 14 months. By the time he went back to enlist, Ukraine was thought to have lost as many as 17,500 soldiers and badly needed more men on the front lines.

After training in Kyiv, Ruslan joined a "storm" brigade, an extremely dangerous type of counteroffensive unit that often operates on the edge of Russian strongholds. Diana and Ruslan talked frequently, but his work often required him to go dark for days on end. For Diana, the wait was terrifying. She scoured the news to see where "the hottest part" of the fighting was, figuring that's where her father would be. "You wake up every day thinking I'm going to have bad news today," she says.

Being able to crowdfund equipment for her father and his fellow soldiers has given Diana a semblance of control to counter the nauseating sense of helplessness. It has also helped save lives.

In the summer of 2023, Ruslan texted his daughter, "I'm going on a mission." Four days later, he called from the hospital. He had been sent to Bakhmut, where a Russian drone had exploded 18 inches from his head, giving him and three of his comrades concussions. One was so severely injured that he had to be wrapped in a tourniquet that Diana had fundraised for. (The soldier's leg was amputated, and he's now with his family.) Diana spent a week with her father as he recovered in the hospital.

When he returned to active duty, Ruslan became a drone operator. Though he was farther from the front lines, he was arguably in even more danger. Drone operators have been very effective: Citing Ukrainian military commanders, The New York Times reported last month that Ukraine's drones accounted for at least 80% of Russian front-line losses. Several Ukrainian drone operators have told Business Insider that because of this, they are disproportionately in the enemy's crosshairs. Ruslan calls drone operators Russia's "target No. 1." This October, while in the Luhansk region, Ruslan used a surveillance drone Diana had raised funds for to spot four Russian soldiers advancing toward his unit, giving Ruslan and his comrades enough time to avert an onslaught.

Diana has raised more than $100,000 for drones, jackets, boots, helmets, medical supplies, trench-digging equipment, and thermal-vision gear. She credits part of her success to "how transparent I am with my situation, with my family." Much of her support comes from partnering with NAFO, the North Atlantic Fella Organization, an online community playing on the NATO name that challenges Russian disinformation, largely through dog memes.

Some crowdfunders encourage donations by sharing stories about themselves or their friends. Some host livestreams or ask followers to celebrate their birthday by donating to a soldier's unit. Others offer services and products: You can get a message written on ammunition to be fired at Russian targets or buy artwork made of bullets, shells, and destroyed Russian equipment and uniforms.

Dimko Zhluktenko, a 26-year-old former IT manager in Kyiv, didn't join the military at the start of the war. "I chickened out in the beginning a bit," he says, and he was taking care of his sick mother. But he knew his tech skills could allow him to help Ukraine in another way. It was obvious to him that the military wasn't getting the resources needed to win the war, so he started buying protective gear for his friends.

He posted about his efforts on X, sharing stories of his childhood friends on the front lines, like Max, who destroyed a bridge to stop a key Russian advance. His followers responded. "Many people started asking, 'How can I send you money?'" he says. By April 2022, Zhluktenko had received so many of those requests that he decided to work on fundraising full time, starting a charity organization to provide "high-tech equipment" that would increase "the efficiency of our forces." He called it Dzyga's Paw, named after his dog. Donors can get merch — like stickers, tote bags, and patches — based on how much they donate. He's raised more than $2.9 million from more than 28,000 individual donations.

Giles says that because the crowdfunding effort is so complex and unregulated, there have been "persistent allegations of fraud" against several groups. To counter that, Zhluktenko has made his organization radically transparent. On Dyzga's Paw's website, among other details about its budget, the organization keeps a daily log of its expenses. In one week in November, for example, it paid two employee salaries ($1,166.89) and bought 15 Starlink satellite receiver kits ($4,884.13), an F13-Retrik uncrewed aerial vehicle ($2,780.36), and paper clips ($0.75).

Zhluktenko is also transparent about who exactly is receiving which equipment and what they're using it for. To motivate people to donate, he constantly shares stories on social media about soldiers like Nazar, who coached a youth soccer team before the war. In a post on X in October advertising a fundraiser, Zhluktenko's organization wrote, "Nazar and his unit need essential equipment—from laptops to portable power stations and signal-boosting antennas for drones to be even more effective."

Dyzga's Paw also shares videos of frontline soldiers expressing gratitude, memes of gear en route to soldiers, and, crucially, footage of the gear donors have funded in action, often captured by drones they've also donated. Zhluktenko says these videos — often of Russian tanks being blown up or Russian soldiers surrendering — are extremely effective marketing: Donors "actually get to see the impact of the equipment they have sent" and how their donations "challenge the myth of an undefeatable Russian army."

Mats Kampshoff, a 25-year-old student in Germany, has given about $600 to Dyzga's Paw and other crowdfunding projects during the war, though he has no personal connection to Ukraine beyond the stories of soldiers he's been following. "Connecting this war effort with a daily life that I can connect to really brought home the point that I don't want this war to be around," he says. Donating feels "more like a logical decision than one based on morals," he says, adding that "it's just the small part that I can do to shape the world in the way that I envision."

In surveys of Ukrainians conducted in 2022 and 2023, almost 80% of respondents said they'd donated to some form of crowdfunding campaign during the war. Most of Zhluktenko's donors are from Europe, the US, Australia, Japan — "any countries Russia would call the collective West," he says. "There are people who have donated for 50-something weeks straight."

Hlib Fishchenko, 25, founded a volunteer organization called Vilni, which he said gets about 80% of its donations from Ukrainians. He raises money for items like excavators that help protect soldiers building trenches; the last one Vilni bought cost about $25,000, which it raised in a month. He said Ukrainian donors understand that they could donate to rebuild a school, or they could donate to help soldiers prevent Russia from destroying schools in the first place. They see their donations as preventive, he said, while some international donors are more willing to fund projects like reconstruction and medical aid.

Receiving donations for equipment is one thing. Getting the equipment to the front lines is another.

Zhluktenko's team goes on a frontline expedition about once a month. Their motto is "Just don't be stupid." In July they were driving toward Kharkiv when they learned of an imminent Russian glide-bomb attack nearby and changed their route.

Organizations and crowdfunders, including Dyzga's Paw and Diana Kulyk, often work with Nova Post, a major Ukrainian delivery company that delivers close to the front lines. Nova Post told BI that it delivers to residents and the military and that it stops only when the military "says that it is dangerous to work and forbids us to open branches." The company said that branches have indoor and outdoor shelters designed so that employees and clients can reach them within 30 seconds and that frontline branches have reinforced doors and windows.

The company's operations have only grown: It told BI it had opened 2,242 branches and two sorting offices and installed 1,853 parcel lockers since February 2022 and that it shipped 30% more parcels in 2023 than it did in 2022.

Experts say the crowdfunding of Ukraine's fight could offer a glimpse into the future of warfare. Major Western militaries are unlikely to start relying on crowdfunding anytime soon, given their extensive resources and stringent procurement policies. But Jensen, the war-strategy expert, predicts that crowdfunding via social media will be vital in "future insurgencies against authoritarian regimes." Giles says he's already seeing "more explicit calls on soldiers to equip themselves," with soldiers in countries like Latvia and Finland, which he says "may be facing Russian aggression next," buying more military equipment themselves.

Giles says this war might be unique in that it has dragged on long enough for these campaigns to develop. But it's also dragged on long enough for some support to wane. Several fundraising groups said they'd seen donations dry up in recent months; fatigue is setting in as the war concludes its third year. In November, an advisor to President Volodymyr Zelenskyy told Bloomberg that the donations he'd received that month through YouTube livestreams had plummeted by two-thirds compared with what he raised in March. The advisor also said he feared that Donald Trump's return to the presidency would further hinder donations. "Floating talks about Trump's promise to end the war quickly and possibly bring peace reduce willingness of people to donate," he said.

One thousand and sixteen days into the war, fighting rages throughout Ukraine's east. Russia controls nearly 20% of the country. While there are no confirmed death tolls and estimates vary wildly, many tens of thousands of soldiers are believed to have been killed on both sides.

Zhluktenko got married in July and then signed a military contract. "Ukraine needs people fighting," he says. "It's impossible to win a war for your freedom without fighting for your freedom." On October 23, his birthday, he posted on X: "My birthday wish this year is survival. I don't need any gifts this year except something that will help me be effective in my military role and to survive." While he's on duty, his wife has taken over Dyzga's Paw.

Diana Kulyk completed another campaign several months ago, raising $48,000 to buy her father's brigade two pickup trucks with night-vision cameras and all-terrain tires. But she says that regardless or whether her dad needs anything, she spends much of her mental energy trying to prepare herself for the possibility of her father's death. She's lost friends in the war. She lost her cousin — Ruslan's nephew, who went to the registration office with him. And she's watched her father lose comrades.

"There is a high chance of it eventually happening, so I have been working on that," she says. "I have a phrase I came up with to tell myself: 'Better to be a man of honor than to live scared.'"

Sinéad Baker is a News Correspondent based in Business Insider's London bureau, writing about Russia's invasion of Ukraine.

Timothy Danikowski was ready to start his adult life. After four years in a small college town and a fifth year back at home thanks to the pandemic, he finally moved to Seattle in 2021. Soon after, Danikowski landed a respectable accounting job, moved into his own apartment, and signed up for his first credit card, which he intended to use only for emergencies.

At first Danikowski kept on top of his balance well enough, but soon his compulsive shopping addiction and desire to see the world broke his discipline. "I built up points to travel," he told me. "But when I travel, I want to go shopping, and that's where the spending gets out of control."

In three years, Danikowski has racked up about $15,000 in debt across three cards, one of which has an interest rate of 28%. He makes his minimum payments each month — a task that has become much harder since he lost his job this year — and tries to resist the urge to keep using the cards, but his balance doesn't budge.

"When it comes to everyday things, I choose comfort over everything else," he said.

Danikowski and many other Gen Zers are rapidly building up credit-card debt. A TransUnion study found that, adjusting for inflation, the average credit-card balance for someone who was 22 to 24 at the end of last year was $2,834, a 26% increase from the average figure for millennials who were the same age a decade ago. The study also suggested that Gen Zers were much more comfortable with credit cards than prior generations were: They were opening more cards, were more likely to fall behind on payments, and were using the cards for more types of purchases. Alev told me Credit Karma data shows Gen Zers are acquiring debt at a faster rate than any other age group. The combination of an increasingly turbulent economy and Gen Zers' desire to make up for lost time via pandemic "revenge spending" has left many members of the generation overly reliant on credit.

"Gen Z really prioritizes fun over finances when it comes to things like eating out, shopping, and travel," says Courtney Alev, a consumer advocate at Credit Karma. "That combined with the fact that they have just had fewer earning years explains why their credit-card debt is growing at a faster rate."

While Gen Zers' overall debt levels are still lower than older generations', young consumers' early reliance on credit cards puts their financial futures at risk. "The financial burdens that Gen Z is facing today can really have long-lasting effects on their lives," Alev says, "including their ability to achieve key milestones, such as delaying big moments like marriage, buying a home, or starting families until they feel more financially secure."

Part of Gen Zers' interest in credit cards is simply the march of technological progress. The digital natives have more payment options than any generation before them, and they've embraced electronic payments and alternative credit methods like digital wallets and buy-now-pay-later apps. Meanwhile, credit-card companies have targeted young people as eager new customers.

There are also some acute financial reasons Gen Zers have been jumping headfirst into the credit pool. Pandemic restrictions, inflation, and high interest rates hit them hard as they were starting their professional careers and getting their financial footing. As young people sought solutions to financial stresses, and as credit-card balances fell, credit-card companies were more than willing to make Gen Zers an offer. The companies made getting credit easier in 2021 and 2022 by allowing people with lower credit scores to access cards for which they previously would have been ineligible. Young people opened credit cards at a faster rate than any other age group during the pandemic.

The temptation to use those cards was strong. Credit Karma found that its Gen Z members' average credit-card debt increased by 3.2% from the first quarter to the second quarter of 2024, while the average debt for millennials, Gen Xers, and baby boomers increased by 2.4%, 2%, and 1.6%. While credit-card balances in the US decreased early in the pandemic, it didn't take long for American consumers to start racking up debt again. Credit-card balances have risen by $396 billion since the first quarter of 2021, a 51% increase.

Some people accumulated credit-card debt in a wave of post-pandemic revenge spending; some were chasing points and rewards. Still others said they racked up big bills because they couldn't afford not to. Regardless of the reasons, it's clear that many Gen Zers are comfortable with their little pieces of plastic.

Danikowski, for example, told me he fell into the credit-card trap after acquiring an American Express gold travel card with a sky-high annual percentage rate. The card let him build up points, which allowed him to continue traveling. "I got so used to this lifestyle I lived for the last three years that it became hard for me to cut back," he says.

Others, like Nico, a 27-year-old advertising strategist, got caught in a post-pandemic spending cycle. After graduating from college in 2020, Nico moved back home with his mom to save money while working remotely. By late 2021, Nico was ready for a change. After he moved to Chicago, he started using his credit card way more. He was struggling to make his $1,100 rent on a $36,000 salary. In addition to paying his bills and making sure he had groceries, Nico was trying to make new friends in the city.

"I couldn't afford to live, but I'm in a new city, and I want to go out and meet people. I called those my fun expenses," he says. "I started putting all of that on my credit card."

Nico kept reaching his credit limit, and the credit-card company kept extending it. Three years later, he has about $20,000 in credit-card debt and a monthly minimum payment of $400, nearly all of which goes toward interest. Landing a higher-paying job has helped him start to get a handle on the debt, he said. He's stopped using the card and tries to make a payment of $700 to $900 each month in hopes of bringing his total down.

Credit proved vital for Emmaline, a 27-year-old web developer in North Carolina, when she had to make ends meet during a career pivot. She racked up $6,000 in credit-card debt while attending a full-time coding boot camp, using the card to to pay for groceries, car maintenance and insurance, and other life expenses. While the card was a lifeline as she tried to set herself up for a successful career, she felt ashamed and worried about her debt, she tells me. For a long time she kept it a secret. This year she finally opened up to family members, who helped her make a plan to pay it down and offered some financial assistance. After spending a few months throwing nearly every penny she had at the debt, Emmaline was able to pay it all off in November.

"I made sure I was only eating beans and leaving myself money for gas," she says. "I let out a tear or two of pure joy and relief when it was finally paid off."

Gen Zers are far from alone in racking up credit-card debt: The total credit-card balance held by US consumers surpassed $1 trillion in 2023. The number of Americans struggling to pay off their loans is also rising. But the particular danger for Gen Zers is becoming so reliant on credit cards so early in their financial lives. Higher debt, Alev says, can lead to lower credit scores that could make it more difficult to pay for things like a house or a car. From March 2022 to February 2024, the percentage of Credit Karma's Gen Z members with subprime credit, meaning a score below 600, rose by 8 points, to 33% from 25%, while the percentage of millennials with subprime credit scores increased by 6 points. Credit Karma said the average Gen Z credit score dropped to 659 in the second quarter from 671 in the first quarter.

William, a 27-year-old emergency medical technician in Colorado, has about $20,000 in credit-card debt, accumulated over 4 ½ years. His first job out of college in 2020 came with a salary of $27,000. Struggling to get by, William primarily used his credit card for necessities like groceries, bills, and car maintenance. But when a health emergency kept him out of work for weeks, his balance snowballed. These days, William makes his minimum payment, but nearly all of it goes to interest. He says he once dreamed of moving abroad and teaching English but has accepted that his credit-card debt keeps him tethered to a reliable source of income stateside.

"I'd like to have a family one day and be able to settle down and raise kids, give them a good life," William says. "But that's not something I can do until I have a better hold on this."

It's not clear that Gen Zers' habits will change anytime soon. The Federal Reserve Bank of New York said in August that younger debt-holders were more likely to be delinquent on their credit-card payments than older ones. Falling behind on these payments has given young people a bleak outlook.

"Credit-card debt is an invisible problem," Emmaline says. "You can't see it. It veils you in shame. It eats you like a parasite."

Alev says there are some steps people can take to try to escape credit debt. First and foremost, she cautions people to stay as far away from high-interest debt as possible. She also advises debt-holders to stop using that credit line and make a plan to pay down the debt, such as transferring the debt to a personal loan at a lower interest rate.

Most important, she says, members of the credit-card generation shouldn't bury their heads in the sand. She recommends people create a spreadsheet listing all their debts along with minimum payments, interest rates, and consolidation options.

When William feels suffocated by his monthly payments and interest rate, he can feel tempted to rack up even more debt. "Someone is always willing to give you another credit card," he says.

Danikowski, meanwhile, said feeling hopeless about his debt was pointless. Though he lost his job this year, he still took trips to Europe and New York.

"I know it's not a good decision," he says. "But at least I've gotten to see the world."

Erin Snodgrass is a senior reporter at Business Insider.

Julie Herron drove by the Aldi near her home in Nashville for years before she went in. She usually shopped at Publix, but in 2021, when inflation was sending grocery prices soaring, her curiosity got the better of her. She was shocked at what she found in Aldi.

Everything there was cheap, she said. The store also had cool products, like a variety of German cheeses and $1.59 makeup-removal wipes she said were "superior, honestly," to a comparable $20 product at Sephora.

Aldi has become Herron's go-to store. "My friends say that they call me the 'Aldi Queen,'" Herron, a retired elementary-school teacher, told me. "I go every week."

As grocery prices have jumped by double digits over the past few years, people have felt the sting. For many, Aldi has been a source of solace. A recent Motley Fool analysis found that a basket of 20 products that cost about $65 at Aldi was $11 more at Kroger and about $54 more at Whole Foods. Though Aldi isn't the biggest grocery chain in the US — according to Euromonitor, it captured just 1.4% of US grocery sales last year, compared with Walmart's 25% — it offers a lot of things shoppers are looking for these days: organic meat, store brands, and a quick shopping trip. As a result, it has attracted loyal fans who proudly sport Aldi-branded tote bags, pants, and flip-flops. And it's the fastest-growing grocery chain in America by new store openings, a title it has held for five years, according to the real-estate services company JLL.

The US grocery business is ruthless. Competition is fierce, and profit margins are slim. Many have tried and failed to find success. So how did a German grocery chain find such a ravenous following in America?

From its start in Germany after World War II, Aldi's founders, Theo and Karl Albrecht, were singularly focused on keeping prices low. The brothers expanded their family-run store into a chain of 77 stores in Germany by 1954 with the aim of minimizing expenses and maximizing profit. They didn't advertise. They offered only shelf-stable items that sold well, eliminating the need to buy and run refrigerators. Shoppers even picked their own items off the shelves — a radical concept at a time when German shoppers were used to being served at a counter.

When Aldi opened its first US store in Iowa City, Iowa, in 1976, it used a similar approach. A newspaper ad at the time proclaimed that the store had "no perishables," "no fancy shelving," and "no fancy floor." It promised lower prices for a variety of items, from baby shampoo to salad dressing. The ad estimated that the cost of a basket of goods at Aldi was 18% less than at a rival.

Though that store ended up closing in 1977, Aldi kept working to perfect its formula for American shoppers, largely by going smaller. The Iowa City store was about 40,000 square feet — close in size to a typical modern US supermarket — but the hundreds of stores Aldi opened in the next two decades were just about 10,000 square feet. This meant that Aldi could carry only a fraction of the items that its supermarket rivals could, but it had a solution: Go smaller with selection, too. Instead of stocking a dozen types of ketchup, it sold only one or two. The model caught on, and by 2004 the chain had 700 locations across the country.

Over the years Aldi has found clever ways to become even more efficient. Today, for instance, produce like apples, oranges, and broccoli are sold in prepackaged units to save time weighing and pricing each item. Many shelf-stable items are put on the sales floor in the same cartons they arrived in. Employees often rotate between ringing up customers and stocking shelves. To get a shopping cart, customers have to provide a quarter, which they get back when they return the cart — a system that saves the company from needing parking-lot attendants to round up carts. Though shoppers must bring their own bags and pack them themselves, the prepackaged produce and large barcodes on products contribute to a speedy process.

A September study of grocery prices in Charlotte, North Carolina, by analysts at Bank of America found that while Aldi had raised prices by more than other grocers over the previous year, it was still cheaper than local Walmarts (which were cheaper than Kroger-owned chains and Whole Foods).

Aldi now has about 2,400 stores in the US, with another 800 planned for the next four years. Foot-traffic data from the location-data company Placer.ai indicates that the number of shoppers who visited Aldi stores in the spring of 2022 increased from the same period in 2019. This year, foot traffic at Aldi's stores has grown by 10% to 18% each month compared with 2023, more than double the rise among traditional grocery stores.

Sumone Udono, a trucker based in Wisconsin, has frequented an Aldi that's a 10-minute walk from her home for decades. She buys everything from the brand's organic pistachios to the spices she estimates would cost double at a traditional supermarket.

Selling others on Aldi, though, wasn't always easy. She recalled that in the early 2000s, when she ran a concession stand at her kids' baseball games, she tried to convince the other parents to replace Oscar Mayer hot dogs with the Aldi equivalent to lower prices. The parents were hesitant but ultimately agreed to sell both and see how it went. The Aldi dogs ended up outselling the name-brand ones.

Relying on store brands is one of the most successful cost-cutting tactics Aldi has implemented. Aldi says roughly 90% of the items in its stores are from the grocer's own brands. For comparison, about 20% of groceries sold in the US last year were store brands, according to the Food Marketing Institute.

Scott Patton, a vice president of national buying and customer interaction at Aldi USA, said that having so many private-label products saved the company costs associated with national brands, such as advertising fees. It also gives Aldi more of a say in how products are created — for instance, Aldi worked with one of its mandarin-orange suppliers to reduce the amount of plastic in its packaging, a move which helped save Aldi money, Patton said. Costco and Trader Joe's similarly use store brands to cut costs.

Patton said that relying so much on its store brands increases the pressure for Aldi to find just the right items. "If we don't have the right quality at the right price for the consumer, there's not another option for them to pick from."

To accomplish that, he said Aldi tests about 35,000 products a year. In some cases Aldi has found success designing its products to resemble more-familiar brands. For example, it sells Clancy's nacho-cheese-flavored tortilla chips, which come in a red bag with a triangle logo reminiscent of Doritos, and L'oven Hawaiian sweet rolls, which are comparable to King's Hawaiian rolls.

Phil Lempert, a food industry analyst and editor of the website Supermarket Guru, said that many shoppers used to look down on store brands. "For my parents, there was a stigma." But these days, Gen Z and millennial customers are less likely to care about brand and more likely to prioritize price.

It helps that many Aldi-brand products don't seem generic and boring. It stocks brioche, Dutch Emmental cheese, and chili-lime cashews. "It's a German company, so they have a lot of international products, especially cheese," Herron said.

She's a fan of what's known as Aldi's "Aisle of Shame" — or as the store calls it, the Aldi Finds aisle, a section in the center of most Aldi stores with miscellaneous low-cost nonfood items that change every Wednesday. The aisle's items have included rugs and Dutch ovens — and it has garnered a loyal following. The Facebook group Aldi Aisle of Shame Community has 1.5 million members, the most active of whom post photos of their finds. Recently, fall-themed scented candles were making a splash. In October, the hit find was a pressure-point massage cane.

To cash in on the growing fan base, Aldi has released two collections of branded apparel and accessories. Last fall's selection — "Aldi-das," as some on TikTok call it — included canvas slip-on shoes, travel mugs, and a backpack. Lempert said it's a big change from the Aldi of the 1970s. "Twenty-five years ago, the people who went to Aldi were just looking to save money," he said. "Now it's very hip to go to Aldi."

In 2023, Aldi agreed to buy 400 stores from Southeastern Grocers, including many run by Winn-Dixie, a Florida chain that became a household name in the South during the 20th century. Analysts at the consumer-data firm Dunnhumby said the acquisition should "raise alarm bells for retailers not only in the Southeast but throughout the US."

Of course, Aldi's expansion faces headwinds. Americans have lots of choices for where they shop, and recent entrants like Amazon and Lidl, another discount chain based in Germany that launched in the US in 2017, are competing for market share.

Devout Aldi fans might don their branded windbreakers and dart straight to the nearest Aldi, but most Americans just head to whichever store is closest, said Zak Stambor, a senior analyst who covers retail and e-commerce for EMARKETER, a sister company of Business Insider. "Even if I want to save money on groceries and I fit the demographics of the Aldi customer, if I have to drive 15, 20, or 25 minutes to an Aldi, I'm not likely to do that on a regular basis," he said. Twelve states, including Washington and Colorado, don't have an Aldi.

Then there's the fact that grocery-price inflation, which has pushed many people toward the discount grocer, slowed to 1% in the year that ended in October — though, inflation may return if the Trump administration enacts new tariffs. Walmart recently said it planned to raise prices if Trump's tariffs are implemented.

Lempert, the grocery analyst, thinks Aldi's growth is only getting started. He has met the CEO of Aldi USA, Jason Hart, and toured the company's American headquarters in Illinois. He expects to see even more Aldi stores opening. "By the end of this decade," he said, "they'll probably have 4,000 or 5,000 stores."

Alex Bitter is a senior retail reporter at Business Insider.