I failed to buy a house

I put in an offer on a tiny flat a few days before Christmas. What a time to try and buy my first house. But it was so cheap, the second cheapest on the market at that point, and the week before I’d gone to view the third cheapest on the market and it was sold within a few days. So I decided that since I liked the second cheapest 2 bedroom house on the market¹, I’d shoot my shot. Put in an offer, apply to the Kainga Ora partner banks for a first home loan.

I didn’t sleep very well for a few weeks. Submitting endless screeds of paperwork to prove this and that, waiting to hear back from various people and places. Going in to the real estate agent’s office to sign the offer like a real grown adult instead of someone just daydreaming about buying a house. I took leave from work a few days earlier than planned to make phonecalls and fill forms out, because I just couldn’t concentrate on work.

I did very little over the holiday period except watch Netflix and TikTok, and scroll Pinterest saving more photos of rooms I loved, to add to the substantial collection I already had. I made vision boards and started planning some custom furniture, because when I say tiny, I mean, this flat was TINY. 44sqm, to be specific. Which, it turns out, is 1sqm less than the bank was willing to fund. The only bank that actually progressed my application instead of rejecting me after a cursory glance at my situation. Usually it was more like: less than 20% deposit? Goodbye. Single income with a dependent child? Goodbye.

When that bank didn’t reject me outright like so many had, I allowed myself hope that I might just be able to pull this off. Still, I didn’t sleep. This flat was so small the washing machine would be beside the front door, and I would have had to get rid of my couches, and there wasn’t a fenced yard for the dog so I would have to take him outside on a leash frequently. The second bedroom wouldn’t even fit my queen sized bed, so it’s lucky I have a child who has a smaller bed and just needs space for his desk to set up his Playstation on.

I’m emphasising the small size because I want it to be clear that I am not in any way aiming for luxury. I know I’m not going to get a dream home. I just wanted livable. I chose the second cheapest flat that I could find to try and make a home, because it’s still better than renting. I’ve been looking at real estate listings for two years and even though prices are going down, low budget places are still rare.

The agent for the cheapest flat got back to me about my enquiry from a few weeks prior, apologised for missing my email, and invited me to go and view it. I went as a backup option, because if the first flat fell through, the second one was cheap enough that I would have a 20% deposit. It was on a street full of large tired blocks of flats. It wasn’t well maintained and my initial reaction on driving up was “god this place is a shithole”. But it was nice inside, and it was cheap, and sometimes the neighbourhoods that aren’t flash are full of the kindest, realest people, so I tucked the idea in my back pocket to wait on news of the first.

Complicating the situation was the fact that things have gotten increasingly strained between my brother and I. We moved in with him in April 2022, into the house he inherited when his Dad died in 2021, with the agreement that it would be for one year, to help me save while having a safe place to live. My son and I were living in a bus, which I built myself and loved, but I was scared of getting covid and how I would manage things like emptying the toilet if I had no energy to carry it, or shower at the gym or do the laundry at the laundromat if I was isolating. My brother never wanted us here, he didn’t want to share his house, and he made that very clear from the start. It has been uncomfortable and sad, another mentally taxing layer. Most of my stuff is still in boxes that I hadn’t unpacked, and it was like we were perched on the edge of someone else’s life.

So time was nearly up before we’d have to move out, and things were stressful and strained, and I was desperate to get out and settle somewhere.

I got the news that my mortgage had been declined on my first day back in the office after the holidays. I managed not to cry in the office, but it was hard to focus on work. I emailed back the agent of the cheapest flat, and found out it was under offer, and at that point I gave up.

I’ve spent the last two years focusing everything on the goal of buying a house. Providing my son with a stable home and a legacy to one day inherit. Every decision I made, from big ones like moving into a bus and pursuing a promotion, to small ones like cancelling subscriptions, not doing things because I don’t want the expense to show up on my account when the bank looks through it. Fine tuning my budget, looking through real estate listings, researching finance options, applying for additional work on top of the full time job I already had. I don’t regret any of the choices I made, and I’m glad for some of them, like I don’t think I would have pursued a promotion and asked for a payrise if I didn’t have that motivation.

But it’s been such a strain. It requires significant mental capacity to focus on such a big goal like that, and I need to rest. So I’ve given up on buying a house, for a while at least.

Mercifully, I don’t have to begin the slog of trying to find a rental that will allow my dog. We are moving in with a dear friend and her flatmates to a big, comfortable, dog-friendly house that is closer to school for my son. Part of me is bummed that I’m going back into a shared rental situation, but a bigger part of me is relieved. I’m looking forward to it, now I’ve made the decision. I’m not even the leaseholder so my only responsibility is to pay my rent and be a good flatmate. This friend has been like an auntie to my son for many years so he’s very happy to move in with her. She has a good landlord and it’s a nice house. I’m looking forward to having mental space freed up from the pursuit of house buying, but also not being in a temporary and hostile environment living with someone who doesn’t want us there.

I am a pro at moving. I hate how easy this bit feels.

During the 2021/2022 Christmas break I got up at 7am every day, and wrote about 10,000 words on my novel in that two weeks. During the most recent holiday break, I wrote 87 words and struggled to get out of bed by 10am. I’ve been so burnt out and worried and preoccupied that my creativity and productivity has been close to non-existent. So I think it is for the best to take a step back from trying to buy a house. I want to have the headspace to write again. I want to give myself permission to relax. I’ll still be saving and being careful with expenses, because it’s a habit now, and also because who knows what opportunities might arise. But it’s no longer my focus.

I keep thinking of the pretty plates and bowls and cutlery and knife set I bought during the Briscoes boxing day sale, thinking that I might get that flat, and I’d need them, because I got rid of those items when we moved into the bus. They’ll just sit in a box now until some time in the future, and by then I might not like sage green plates anymore. I could use them at our new flat but it’s not the same. I wanted to store them on an open shelf in my new tiny kitchen that I would renovate to look like a little cottage kitchen. It would have been a whole vibe. It’s funny how we become preoccupied with such small details when a big heartbreak just occurred.

Someone else’s cute little kitchen

Part of me thinks: what a fool, to consider that I could ever buy a house, even the second cheapest flat in Lower Hutt. People like me - a chronically ill single mother who grew up poor - don’t get to do things like that. Another part of me is full of rage at the system that tells people like me that we don’t deserve, and can’t have, the basic human right of secure housing.

I earn $90,000 a year, plus freelance income. I share this because so often people talk vaguely about money and it becomes meaningless. That’s more than double the minimum wage. I’m not even close to being wealthy but it’s a decent salary, and if I can’t buy a $320,000 flat, what hope is there for people who are on minimum wage? They deserve stable housing too. But I’m too tired to muster up the appropriate amount of rage that the commodification of housing deserves.

I’m worn out. Done. 2023 will be a year of rest and writing. I’m looking forward to it.

1. *excluding places that were cash buyers only because of earthquake risk, and places that were leased to student organisations, e.g. investor only properties.