How I Became a Homeowner in the Wake of Financial Ruin

And how home ownership empowers women

Today, September 17th, is the sixth anniversary of buying my own house. I know it may seem like a small thing to some, but for me, it is one of my proudest accomplishments.

I’ve wanted to own my own home since I was a teenager. It was just as big a part of my fantasies about adult life as getting married and having babies. I mean, we had to live somewhere, right?

I knew I wouldn’t have the same luck my boomer parents had, both of them homeowners before the age of 25. Gen Xers didn’t grow up in that kind of economy. But I had no doubt it would happen in my thirties.

I started off on the right foot, moving into a beautiful little three-bedroom home in a quiet neighborhood with the man I thought I was going to marry. It had enough space for both a man cave and a nursery.

I had it all planned out. We’d live there for five years or so, save up for a down payment, and by the time our daughter was in school, we’d have our very own home.

He had a different plan, I soon discovered.

Eight months after moving in, I blurted out the fearful question that had been haunting me. “Why haven’t you proposed yet?”

“Oh…babe…” he started. “I don’t really think I’m ready for that. Maybe we can keep saving for a house. But…I’m not really sure I want any of that anymore.”

We did live together in that house for five years. I was right about that.

But what a terrible five years it was, filled with tearful conversations, financial plans that never came to fruition, and an increasing disregard for honesty and integrity — the kind that culminated in his announcement one September day that he was about to propose to another woman and make an offer on a house.

The only obstacle standing in his way was me.

He informed me that he couldn’t afford to honor his financial commitments to me. He had too much money tied up in the down payment he was about to make and the diamond ring he was about to buy. The rent? The fee for breaking our lease? The utilities? Our joint accounts? He was closing out everything, he said, but paying for nothing.

“You deserve it,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I’d already be engaged by now.”

I was a little bit dishonest, too, I suppose. A week later, I sent him a text message filled with words like “de facto,” “fraud,” and “breach of contract.” I didn’t explicitly lie and say I’d seen a lawyer, but I had a feeling he would assume I had.

He quite suddenly agreed to honor his commitment to pay his half of the bills. But when I sat down and took a long look at my expenses, I realized that no matter what he did, the breakup had already financially destroyed me.

We’d always split all the expenses, but his salary was four times larger than mine, despite the fact that I had a master’s degree and he only had a high school diploma.

He had a savings account that had crept to almost six figures. I had a thousand dollars to my name.

I was a 38-year-old professional with an advanced degree and I couldn’t even afford to rent a house on my own.

I moved into a duplex in a sketchy neighborhood that was only a mile from my workplace. Riding my bike there and back would save me a bundle on gas.

But my god, I hated that place.

Everything was painted brown. Even the ceiling. It smelled like paint and glue, and the neighbors across the street were constantly screaming at one another.

I assumed my dream of owning a home was dead. I had no savings and made just $35,000 a year at my nonprofit job.

I had done the math. I knew the reality of the situation. So I can’t really explain what made me call a friend of mine, someone who worked at another nonprofit that helped people secure low-income housing, and ask if she could help me.

She told me it would be a long road of taking classes, filling out paperwork, attending interviews, and jumping through any other hoop they might throw my way.

But I did it.

And three years later — three years after that breakup left me in financial ruin — I signed my mortgage papers and walked away with the keys to my own home in my hand.

It’s not ideal. I’ll be the first person to assure everyone that this is not a fairy tale.

My house is very tiny at 600 square feet. I had to get rid of two-thirds of my possessions in order to move in here. Half the lot is an easement, which means I can’t do much with the yard. And the neighborhood isn’t ideal. It’s incredibly far from the center of town, which makes even a drive to the grocery store a ridiculously long haul, and it’s filled with evangelical Christians, some of whom were so unhappy that a single, childless woman moved in that I had to have security cameras installed to discourage their continued vandalism.

And yet…these challenges are small in comparison to the ways this house has blessed me. For one thing, I’ve never experienced financial security before. I had no idea what a difference it makes to be on stable footing.

That financial security allowed me to quit my job and pursue my dream career. I am grateful every day for that.

It’s also given me something I didn’t expect: a sense of pride that I don’t think I’ll ever lose. Folks, I did this on my own. In the wake of one of the worst experiences of my life, I had the grit, determination, and tenacity to keep pursuing this dream long after I thought it was dead. I would not take no for an answer.

I did it.

I didn’t have an inheritance backing me up. My parents didn’t assist me. I didn’t have a boyfriend or husband paying for half of it.

I did this on my own.

I am the only woman in my family — nuclear and extended — who bought a house on her own. This isn’t something we celebrate in this culture. No one cares if you bought a house. If a man puts a diamond ring on your finger, that’s worth popping open the champagne.

But let me tell you something: What I did is a hell of a lot harder than picking out a white dress and walking down the aisle.

I can’t believe it’s been six years since I moved in here. Admittedly, I was absolutely certain I wouldn’t be here for long. I was only 41 when I bought this place. It seemed inevitable I would meet a partner and have kids within a couple years.

I was so certain, in fact, that I lived out of boxes for the first three years I was here. Why put too much effort into a place I’d be leaving soon?

Last year, when Year 5 rolled around, I was stunned. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But I was fresh off my second of two back-to-back breakups and felt very differently about the idea of partnering with someone.

That’s when I realized it was time to really own this place. Long past time, in fact.

So I’m keeping a list of all the things I want to do here. The hardwood floors I want to install, a central AC unit, solar panels, wainscotting, pendant light fixtures, and a new dishwasher (my god, I hate the one that came with the house).

I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford to do it all — even if I live here for six (or even sixteen) more years.

But when the time does come to leave, I want to know that this house was truly mine. I made it my own, I filled it with love, and I truly lived here inside these four walls.

I want to leave knowing I made it better than what it was when I first moved in. It’s what I owe this home. Because it’s made me better, too.

© Yael Wolfe 2023

Yael Wolfe is a writer, artist, and photographer. You can find more of her work at yaelwolfe.com. If you love her writing, leave her a tip over at Ko-fi.

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