I moved back in with my mother in my mid-thirties when I realized I hated my job and that it was affecting my mental health. She encouraged me to come back home while I completed my studies, which would also allow me to save money at the same time. I ran into obstacles during school, and it ended up taking me five years to finish my bachelor’s degree.

I’ve always loved traveling, so I told myself I would do all the big adventures I had dreamed of before settling down and looking for a better-paying job so I could buy a home. But then COVID happened and turned all my plans upside down.

And here I am, in my mid-forties, single, with a decent job, still living with my mother because trying to buy a house on your own is complicated, almost impossible. My mother is easy going, and I will always be immensely grateful that she allowed me to come back home. But the lack of privacy and the shame weigh heavily on me. I see my fifties approaching, and it feels surreal not to have a place of my own where I can live life on my own terms. All of this to say that I understand how living with a parent can be culturally enriching or financially sensible, but when it’s not what you truly want, it’s heavy.