All my life, I believed that having my own flat would make everything fall into place. Thats how I was brought up to think that a woman needs stability, a roof of her own, something secure she can rely on. I grew up in rented houses, moving often, listening to my mother argue with landlords, and I promised myself that my child would never have to live like that.
When I got married, my husband and I decided to take out a mortgage. It was frightening, but the interest rates seemed manageable back then, and we were young and confident. We signed the papers with trembling hands but full of hope. We bought a small two-bedroom flat on the outskirts of London. There was no lift, but it was ours.
The first few months felt like a celebration. We painted the walls ourselves and built furniture late into the night, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. I felt so happy. Then the repayments started coming. Every month, on the same day, it became a nightmare. I began counting the days, squeezing every penny, worrying if wed have enough money.
I worked two jobs at the office during the day and packing online orders in the evening. My husband took extra hours, too. We hardly saw each other. Our daughter spent more time at Grandmas. I kept telling myself it was just temporary, that we only had to get through a few years before it would get easier.
But the tension started to eat away at us. I became irritable and short-tempered. I was constantly terrified wed lose everything. When the fridge broke, I panicked as if the world was ending. Not because it was such a huge problem, but because I felt we couldn’t afford even the smallest mistake.
The hardest moment came when, one day, I overheard my daughter telling her gran that I was always tired. She said her mum was always rushing and never really laughed. Those words hit me harder than any letter from the bank ever could.
I sat alone in the kitchen of the flat Id fought so hard for. I looked around at the walls, the furniture, the new sofa, and asked myself why I was doing all this. For security. For peace of mind. And yet, our home had neither. Just fear.
For the first time, I let myself think that maybe Id got it wrong. Maybe Id made owning a flat the purpose, and used my family as a means to get there. My husband and I talked for hours. We were both exhausted. We realised wed become little more than flatmates, working for the bank.
It was an incredibly hard decision, but we sold the flat. We paid off the mortgage. We were left with less money than we’d imagined, but for the first time in years, we had no debt. We moved back into rented accommodation. When I signed the lease, I felt like a failure, as if I was admitting I’d not made it.
It took time to let go of that shame. People love to ask if you own your home, as if that defines your worth. I used to think that as well. Now, I know its an illusion.
We have fewer possessions now, but more time. Our evenings are calm. We go for walks together. We cook as a family. My daughter sees me smile again. I realised something important home isnt defined by a title deed. Home is the atmosphere you create inside.
Im not saying its wrong to own your own place. I just know it isnt worth losing yourself for. Nothing material should ever cost more than your health, your relationships, or your peace of mind.
For years, I chased security at any price. In the end, I learned the greatest security is being together and living without constant fear. Everything else is just bricks and mortar.
