Money and the price of indecision
Why do we know we're overpaying and still do nothing about it? A personal look at loyalty, inertia, and the price of autopilot.
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Why do we know we're overpaying and still do nothing about it? A personal look at loyalty, inertia, and the price of autopilot.
When we moved to Canada and bought our first car, insurance was simply another item on a very long checklist. I knew nothing about the Canadian insurance market, so I did what many newcomers do: lean on someone trustworthy. My father-in-law recommended the brokerage firm he had been using for years, so I called them.
The experience was exceptional. They patiently answered every question I had, explained a system I barely understood, and made me feel like more than just another customer. When we later moved into our first home, my account rep was my first call. Renewals came and went, and I never questioned them. I wasn’t really buying insurance anymore; I was buying certainty.
Then, one evening I saw an advertisement for an online insurer. I almost ignored it. Why would I price shop when I already trusted the person looking after me? But curiosity got the better of me.
I completed the online quote expecting nothing more than confirmation that I was in the right place. Instead, the premium came back roughly 30% lower than what I was paying. I called my account rep the next day expecting her to match it. She couldn’t. In fact, she admitted that if she were in my position, she’d probably switch too. And so I did.
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My first reaction was to look for someone to blame. I had heard enough about the ‘loyalty tax’—the frustrating reality that new customers are often offered better prices than existing ones. It seemed like the obvious explanation. In industries such as insurance, telecommunications, and subscriptions, the practice of offering attractive introductory pricing before gradually increasing renewal prices is so common it even has a name: price walking.
But the more I looked into it, the less it explained what had happened to me. This was not a case of my broker penalizing me for being loyal. It was simply the difference between a brick-and-mortar provider and an online one—a fair reflection of two different business models. The more interesting question was not why the industry does this, but why I had reached for that explanation so quickly when the real story was so much closer to home.
Nobody tricked me into renewing, and nobody hid the better price from me either. It had likely existed for years. I simply never asked, and when I finally did, nothing about my situation had changed except my attention.
What I had mistaken for loyalty was really autopilot.
Behavioural economists describe this tendency as status quo bias. We naturally favour what we’re already doing because changing feels like work, even when the evidence suggests we’d be better off making the switch.
That explanation resonated with me because I couldn’t hide behind ignorance. I negotiate almost everything. I genuinely enjoy finding value, and friends often joke that I could write a book on how to never pay full price. Yet, I had been overpaying for years.
It made me wonder where else the same blind spot was hiding. I suspect I could save money in so many places, the same way I once joyfully price matched and now rarely bother.
The irony isn’t that I don’t know better, it’s that I do.
I thought that experience had been a turning point. Then, a few months ago, a friend told me he had recently reviewed his car insurance policy, removed some redundant coverage, and meaningfully reduced his monthly premium.
I should have gone home and reviewed my own policy again. I didn’t.
My honest reaction was surprisingly underwhelming. I had already optimized it once, and doing it again felt like a chore, which bothered me far more than the overpaying ever had.
Every time I finally call a telecom provider or negotiate a bill, the conversation is almost always easier than I imagined. But the next time, my brain tells me the same story: ‘I can’t be bothered.’ Maybe that’s the real cost. Not the money itself, but the emotional friction we attach to making a decision.
The Competition Bureau of Canada once surveyed Canadians who had recently switched or renegotiated their telecom, banking, and insurance plans, and found they saved roughly $1,860 a year, combined, by doing so.
What struck me far more than the dollar figure was the finding sitting right beside it: only about one in four Canadians surveyed had gone ahead and switched or renegotiated anything. Three out of four people suspected they were leaving money on the table and did nothing about it. This is not a knowledge problem. We know. We simply do not act on what we know, and that gap between knowing and acting is the real story here.
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We know introductory offers expire. We know loyalty isn’t always rewarded. We know we should periodically review our recurring expenses. We simply don’t.
Once I noticed this pattern, I started seeing it everywhere: software subscriptions, phone plans, even the gym membership I happily keep because I enjoy the experience. Some premiums are worth paying and are intentional, while others continue because I’ve stopped questioning them.
Perhaps some of the most expensive financial decisions aren’t the ones we actively make, but the ones we stop making.
This experience has left me with three questions, and I already know the honest answer to all of them. That has not made much difference.
The first is narrow and almost diagnostic. Am I staying somewhere because I’m genuinely loyal, or because making a different decision feels inconvenient? For my insurance, I know the answer twice over.
The second is wider and has stayed with me longer than I expected. What parts of my financial life are running on autopilot simply because nothing has forced me to reconsider them? Not just the obvious subscriptions and providers, but the job, the routine, the relationship with money itself—anything that has continued because stopping it never became urgent enough to trigger a decision.
And finally, the hardest one. If I discovered today that I was overpaying for something, would I do anything about it? I have already answered this twice. The first time, I acted. The second time, knowing everything I already knew, I didn’t.
There is no shortage of personal finance articles explaining how to negotiate a better rate or threaten to leave for a discount. That advice is sound, but it isn’t what caught my curiosity.
What fascinates me is the moment before the phone call. The moment when we already know the answer, already know the potential savings, and still decide—consciously or otherwise—not to act. It is a strange thing to notice while writing about it, and even stranger to notice that the noticing changes nothing.
I still have not called anyone. I am not sure when I will. Knowing the answer was never the hard part.
How would you answer those same three questions? You probably already know, even if you have not said it out loud yet.
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