How Buying a House Healed My Broken Heart

It didn’t happen the way I thought it would — but it made me happier than I ever dreamed I could be

I didn’t grow up believing that I could buy my own house. Not unless I was extremely wealthy. I had always thought I would need the financial assistance (and guidance) of a male partner.

I know how horribly un-woke that sounds — believe me, as a feminist, I’m thoroughly disgusted — but keep in mind that I was born only two years after women were given the right to have their own credit cards. So my belief about needing a man to buy a house with me was just part of the rhetoric of our culture when I was growing up.

Despite the feelings of financial helplessness I had around buying a house, I dreamed about it all the time. I couldn’t wait to own a house and be able to do whatever I wanted to it. Paint the walls forest green. Rip up the carpets in favor of hardwood. Plant a garden.

When I was in my early thirties and fell in love, I couldn’t wait to start building our home together. We had fun with our rented house, but three years in, I was getting impatient to close the deal — in a lot of ways.

Despite the feelings of financial helplessness I had around buying a house, I dreamed about it all the time.

I wanted to get married, too, but I soon found out that his feelings about marriage had changed. I was stunned. Parenthood also seemed suddenly off the table.

I thought I could give up the dream of being married. What did that really matter, anyway, if we were committed to one another (though I had a sneaking suspicion he was not). And maybe — maybe, I thought — I could let go of the dream of having a baby. That one was a lot tougher, but would I regret not having a child more than losing my partner? I wasn’t so sure.

“What if we let everything else go and just bought a house?” I asked. “Just one step forward together.”

I was even more stunned when he said no, yet again. It was too much of a commitment, he said. He just wasn’t ready.

“What if we let everything else go and just bought a house?” I asked.

Over the years, our relationship all-too-slowly crumbled, until he fell in love with a young woman he met at work. In the ensuing weeks, as he rushed to wrap up the loose ends of our relationship (packing his belongings, signing documents with our landlord, removing his name from our utility bills), he occasionally treated me to information about his plans to buy a house for his new, young, soon-to-be fiancée.

I was devastated. There he was, saying yes to everything with her, after years of saying no to me, and I feared I would never realize the dreams that I had given up for him. Buying a house suddenly seemed impossible.

A year later, still struggling to make ends meet on my meager nonprofit salary, I decided to meet with a friend who worked as a counselor for low-income community members looking to buy a house. I had nothing to lose, after all.

We went over my finances. She gave me advice. I took classes, saved money, and kept my eye on the goal. I was soon gifted with several incredible opportunities. And two years and three guardian angels later, I was sitting in a title agency, signing mortgage documents.

And I did it all by myself, on my shoestring budget, without the help of no manz.

The first year was exciting but hard. Being a single woman homeowner sometimes felt like more than I could handle. What if the pipes burst? What if the roof leaked? What if mice got into the house?

And what were the implications of taking on the responsibility of my little house all by myself? Was that it for me? Was I going to be single for the rest of my life?

The first year was exciting but hard. Being a single woman homeowner sometimes felt like more than I could handle.

But as the months rolled by, my fears started to abate as I enjoyed my independence. I could put up as many floral-patterned curtains as I wanted. I could arrange the furniture the way I liked. I could pull up the lawn and create a huge garden.

I bought a journal and started writing down all the plans I had for the house: all the little projects to complete in those early days and the much bigger ones that would take time and money to accomplish.

That journal became a long, ongoing love letter to my house. In its pages, I recorded my dreams for our future together. I see myself sitting beneath a pergola that hasn’t yet been built, admiring the sunflowers in my backyard. I see myself picking lavender and lettuce out of the garden I painstakingly created. I see myself typing away at the desk in my perfectly organized, sunny little office. And sometimes, I even see myself sleeping next to a future partner, in my cozy bedroom where I still get to hang the floral-patterned curtains of my choosing.

My house has answered my prayers. It has heard and realized my dreams. It has guarded and protected me. It has given me a future.

Since I moved into this beautiful dwelling, the scars on my heart have softened so much, I can barely see them anymore. I believe in life again. I believe in myself again.

My house has answered my prayers. It has heard and realized my dreams.

I even believe in love again. Because I love this house so much and I know it loves me.

This is where I belong and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that way as an adult. Not with a partner. Not in my former homes. But now, finally, I belong.

I still have dreams that remain unrealized — but I got my house and it made me happier than I ever believed I could be.

And if this is all there is for me…it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

© Yael Wolfe 2020