The Quiet Reality of Being Priced Out
We’ve lived in our current home for almost five years—come January, it would’ve been a full half-decade. It’s not fancy, but it’s been home—the place where the days blur together, where the walls have held laughter, frustration, and far too much stuff.
When we first moved here in 2019, one of the biggest draws was stability. The management rarely raised rent, and it felt like we’d found somewhere we could stay long-term—a little bubble of consistency in an expensive area. For a while, that peace held. Then new management took over in 2024, and everything changed.
My rent jumped from $3,180 to $3,434.
That number might not sound dramatic on paper, but when you’ve lost your job the year before and are still trying to stay afloat, it’s a huge blow. The only reason it wasn’t higher was because I agreed to a 15-month lease. If we had gone with a 12-month term or month-to-month, it would’ve been even more.
God, the panic attack I had when what I’d spent the last year fighting to hold onto started slipping away—I had finally found a decent job that gave me a little breathing room while still working two jobs, and suddenly it felt like it didn’t matter. I felt like a failure, like everyone was judging me. Like no matter what I did to succeed, I was still falling short.
But I did it. We survived the 15 months and managed to pay the increase. Then came the notice: another hike. From $3,434 to $3,614. Again, it might not sound like much, but that extra $200 is our grocery bill. And that’s when I knew I couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep stretching thinner and thinner, living even more paycheck to paycheck.
We have to move.
This was proof that home can slip through your fingers without warning—not because you chose to leave, but because someone else decided it was time for you to pay more for the same space.
Now I’m looking for a new place to live. Not because I want to, but because I have to. And nothing in my area comes close to what I can afford unless I go smaller. Much smaller. And farther from work.
The Downsize Dilemma
Once the shock wore off, reality set in. If we’re moving, we’re moving smaller—and that means reevaluating everything we own.
There’s not a lot of grief in letting things go—it’s more of a puzzle. We have five rooms right now, and there’s stuff in every one of them. It’s not just mine to sort through, either. Everyone in the house has to decide what to keep, what to sell, and what to store “just in case.” Because even though we’re downsizing now, that doesn’t mean we won’t need some of this later, right?
Then there are the seasonal items and holiday decorations—we don’t want to keep that stuff in the new apartment year-round, so a storage unit is now part of the plan.
I’m learning that we accumulate a ton of things under the label of maybe later. Every item feels like a potential future inconvenience if we part with it. What if I need that tool again? That extra blanket? That random gadget I forgot I even had until I found it in a closet?
Letting go isn’t always emotional—it’s strategic. Especially when funds are tight. If I get rid of something now, will I have the money to replace it when I need it again?
And yet, every decision feels heavier now. When every square foot counts, even the cat’s litter box becomes a logistical challenge.
Redefining “Enough”
The reality is that everyone I talk to seems to be in the same position—trying to find something decent but affordable. And the more I look, the more I realize that “cheap” often means farther away from everything that makes life manageable.
Commuting from a new zip code starts to sound like the only option for keeping your head above water. But then you start to wonder what “quality of life” really means anymore.
If I have to spend two hours each way commuting for work—seven days a week, because yes, I’ll still need two jobs just to catch up—how much time am I losing? Will the money I save in rent vanish into gas, tolls, and maintenance?
Is quality of life about having space? Safety? Proximity? Or just being able to exhale in a place you can actually afford to stay?
Finding the New Shape of Home
It’s overwhelming, but there’s also a strange kind of peace in stripping things back to what matters most.
As hard as this process is, I’m trying to see it as an opportunity to reset—to keep what matters most: sentimental pieces, daily routines, small comforts—and let the rest go. Maybe “less space” can mean more intention. Maybe this next chapter will be about creating something simpler but more grounded.
I don’t know exactly where we’ll land yet, but I do know this: home isn’t just a price tag. It’s the feeling you fight to rebuild when the world makes you start over.
And that’s what I plan to do.
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