In one way or another, weβve all been touched by the cost-of-living crisis. Perhaps weβve noticed the blowout of the weekly grocery shop, or maybe weβve had to give up our daily coffee.
For me, a higher cost-of-living has led me to take the somewhat drastic step of moving back in with my parents. In 2021, I bought a property with a manageable mortgage, but consecutive interest rate rises over the following years made repayments hard. So, after more than 15 years of living independently, I rented out my place and can now be found sleeping in the upstairs bedroom of my family home, crammed in among my books and art that previously populated an entire apartment.
Elsie Flanagan-OβNeil with her parents.
While I stayed at the family home for short periods throughout my 20s, to save for a trip or a house deposit, there is something altogether different about moving in with your mum and dad as a 30-something woman. And though my parents were thrilled to take me in (it was initially their suggestion), it has certainly required some adjustments.
One of the challenges has been my rapid regression to my teenage self. I have lived alone for years, and have easily managed to wake up on time, wash my clothes and cook my dinner. But within weeks of returning to my parentsβ place, it became all too tempting to outsource these mundane tasks.
I throw my dirty clothes into the laundry and find them, later that day, clean, folded and sitting on my bed. I come home in the evening without any plans for dinner, knowing that something delicious will nevertheless be served. I tell Mum Iβm a grown woman and very happy to do my own cooking and cleaning, but she and I both know my protests are feeble. Sure, Iβm capable of looking after myself, but with semi-retired parents at home, do I really need to?
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Another drawback of moving home has been sharing space with other people again. Whether Iβm competing for the TV remote or fishing soft plastics from the recycling bin, Iβm keenly aware that Iβm making allowances and biting my tongue more often than I have in years.
But by far the most unpleasant aspect of a return home is the embarrassment. People in their 30s should be out in the world, standing on their own feet, paying for the roof over their heads and putting food in their mouths.
Of course, my friends and family know Iβm an independent person. Itβs the new people I meet that Iβm wary of. At parties, encountering friends of friends, I crack self-deprecating jokes about my living situation, hoping laughter will lower their raised eyebrows. When dating, I try to avoid the topic altogether; I vaguely mention that I have older housemates and then ask the man Iβm with something distracting, like whether heβd rather have dinner with Putin or Trump.
