Any Place of Peace

One autumn evening last year, in my cosy living room at home, I found myself watching an episode of The Chase: Celebrity Special. And one of those celebrity contestants, during his introductory chat with Bradley Walsh, happened to make some comment about his mother. The specifics went in one ear and out the other, as far as my interest went, but what has stuck with me ever since is the absolute firmness with which that contestant felt the need to clarify: ‘I don’t live with my mum!’

And naturally enough, that raised a hearty laugh from everybody else in the studio.

It’s not as if it came as news to me that living with one’s parents as an adult is largely condemned by society as a symptom of desperation or even failure. But I suppose it hit a nerve to see that inherent perception being so blatantly perpetuated on television – as a point of humour, even – to remind everyone watching that, oh yes, to live with your mum (and/or dad or other childhood guardian) is something quite shameful indeed.

I’d like to think that I would object to the mockery so often made of it in the media, even if I weren’t in that position myself. Why haven’t we realised how insensitive it is to treat it as something so negative when it’s clearly the reality for lots of people, for lots of different reasons?

As a single person, (narrowly) under thirty, and working only part-time, it’s easy enough for me to blame the cost of living and the housing crisis. Much less easy is escaping the stigma so intrinsically attached to living in the parental home, but at least there are factors beyond my control which I can truthfully use to explain myself. And to some extent, I have youth on my side as well.

But how old was that contestant on The Chase? Maybe you’ve caught yourself already

having made an assumption, or maybe you feel like you still need that particular piece of information before you can make a proper judgement.

He was probably in his forties or fifties.

Well, you might think, that’s a different kettle of fish altogether – of course it would be embarrassing to live with your mum at that age!

But I would implore you to think again. Why should age matter? Yes, it would be embarrassing if you were living with your parent(s) at fifty-four and had never cooked for yourself or used a washing machine before. But if you are actually capable of looking after yourself and contributing to the running of the household, why should there be any shame in living, as we say, ‘at home’?

Coming up in a few weeks I have a reunion event, of sorts. And although I would more than happily let everyone else do the talking, I know I’ll be asked where I hang out and what I’m up to these days. (Oh, the joys.) So, I’ve found myself wondering which slant sounds less pathetic: I still live at home because I can’t afford to move out, or I still live at home because I’m perfectly happy there. Because both are true. If money were no object and properties were readily available, I would certainly suss out the market for a place of my own, but it’s not like I’d be out the door in a heartbeat. I’m not currently looking for a full-time job with the higher salary that could be my ticket out of here – because I like it here. And working part-time means that I am blessed with the luxury of time to focus on my writing, which is an absolute priority for me right now. Although nobody has ever said to me, ‘you need to pull up your socks and move out already so that you can stand on your own two feet’, it is uncomfortable to know that there’s a good chance they might be thinking it; but what brings me solace amidst that discomfort is having perfect clarity on where my priorities lie. Living at home on the cheap allows me to work part-time, and working part-time allows me to write. What else is there to think about?

A couple of years ago, one of my aunts gently probed me on the matter of possibly, you know, pulling up my socks and moving out already so that I can stand on my own two feet. So, I outlined to her the usual – affordability, my employment situation, and that writing is more important to me than anything right now. But it also occurred to me that one other factor, which I had always owned but never expressed aloud as justification for living at home, might be worth mentioning after all: As two grown women, my mum and I have become the best of friends. Not just mother and daughter, we have discovered common ground in terms of interests and worldview, can chat at length about the global issues and the tiny things, and each feel enriched by the other’s company. The simple fact is that we would miss each other a lot if we weren’t living under the same roof.*

Maybe I do my aunt a disservice by assuming that she brought up my living arrangements to subtly remind me that setting up by oneself is generally the appropriate thing to do as a young adult. Maybe she was only concerned about my contentment, and wanted to make sure that I wasn’t feeling trapped or suffocated at home, like a lot of young people might, and sadly, do – in this climate where, for so many, living in the family home is the only alternative to homelessness.

But she then went on to relate her own experience, admitting that if she hadn’t been bundled off to boarding school at the age of eleven, it would have been ‘so easy’ for her to stay with her parents indefinitely.

So, is that what this is about? Is it a shameful thing to live with your parents because it’s perceived as being too easy? Is it a form of cheating at life, to dodge or at least delay that major upheaval which is a rite of passage for most?

I haven’t dodged it entirely, as I did leave home for college in 2015, only to then join the commuter ranks in 2017 for my third and fourth years. But I know some who commuted from home for the duration of their degrees, and others who did local courses before taking up employment, but still haven’t flown the nest. Should they all be hanging their heads in shame?

Back in January, I heard a segment on the radio where the speaker was encouraging

listeners to be realistic about new year’s resolutions – to set attainable goals and possibly even, instead of rushing to challenge and push ourselves, make a resolution to be kinder to ourselves.

And that is something I’ve found myself thinking about a lot lately; why is our society so obsessed with dreaming big and achieving great things? I mean, as long as we play our part as responsible citizens and maintain respect for others, should it really be so bad to take the path of least resistance?

* I get on extremely well with my dad too, but we don’t have quite as much in common, and when Mum and I are putting the world to rights, he’s probably watching the sports news.

Of course staying at home has made life easier for me in a number of ways, and I am painfully aware that there are thousands in this country and millions across the world who would kill for what I have: security, comfort, and the feeling of being loved and accepted in the place I call home. But somehow there remains an expectation that I should, if at all possible, cast aside these fortunate circumstances just to prove a willingness, or perhaps an ability, to live independently.

In these times, this type of independence must necessarily refer to house-sharing or cohabitation with a partner – because nobody on an average salary or below (or even marginally above) can afford to either buy or rent a property single-handedly. So for me, being single (and without any particular desire to change that), the only feasible alternative to living in the family home would be gathering up a friend or two with whom to split the rent on an apartment which none of us are likely to consider our own. That is, if any of us would be willing to commit to the soul-destroying task of trawling through Daft every chance we get, only to despair at the endemic unaffordability, unsuitability, and sheer scarcity. It simply isn’t worth it.

So often on news reports about the housing crisis, I see twenty-somethings positively lamenting the prospect of being stuck in their parents’ houses until they’re forty, and they have my sympathies. But the important word to note here is ‘stuck’. I sympathise whole-heartedly with those who do, but I don’t feel stuck with my parents, and there are others just like me; I know because I know some of them personally. And I think that the societal pressure to pull up one’s socks and move out already might just be compounding the housing crisis, even if only to some small degree: Amongst those of us who are nonetheless content to live with our parents, there can’t help but be a compulsion to flee, the second we can afford it, purely because living in the family home as an adult is generally treated as something unfortunate, shameful, and fundamentally ‘uncool’. So, with that compulsion being put into action, isn’t it just possible that we are exacerbating the scarcity of homes and depriving individuals and families whose need for a place of their own is far greater? In my parents’ house, I have all the space and freedom I need, and they seem to enjoy my company, so why should I set my sights on any property which, for somebody else, might be the difference between refuge and ruin? Just maybe, if we could stop making unfair judgements about those who live with their parents – whether they’re twenty-five or fifty – we could contribute in a small way to easing the pressure on housing. Maybe. Maybe not. But I do believe it’s a cultural shift worth pursuing regardless.

Again, though, I must emphasise that I am sympathetic to the plight of those feeling stuck in the family home. It’s an unfortunate reality for thousands in this country, and I won’t stoop to preaching that they should just be grateful to have a roof over their heads. It isn’t fair that anyone should have to endure, perhaps, a relentlessly suffocating atmosphere characterised by tension and familial bickering. But, neither those afflicted nor their onlookers should conceive of that reality as a source of embarrassment or shame, any more than we would a painfully long commute or a bad-tempered boss – pains in the arse, yes, but ones which we would have no hesitation to complain about at a school reunion.

And as to those fortunate enough to feel comfortable and content in the family home, there should be absolutely no shame in that either.

So many of us pride ourselves on being progressive, tolerant, and non-judgemental. We celebrate diversity of race, religion, gender identity and sexual orientation; we value freedom of speech, commend people’s openness to styling and dressing themselves however they please, and firmly believe in the individual’s right to choose. But we draw the line at an adult’s choice (or need, as the case may be) to live with their parents? Parents are people too, folks, and some of them might even be enjoyable to live with.

But everyone has different circumstances to contend with and different priorities to focus on, so none of us should have to face assumptions that we are desperate, friendless, broke or unhappy just because we live at home.