As I was looking over the architectural plans for my home, I felt myself getting sadder and sadder. And a little confused. Is this what I really asked for? This big box, bland version of a kitchen design? A layout that felt like an inexpensive rental unit at an off-season ski mountain? Was this what the designer had heard when I used phrasing like “I want a sun-drenched first floor worthy of a Nancy Meyers film where I am the main character wearing an impossibly crisp white button-down and drinking Sancerre without any hangover.” Or worse…was this the only thing I could afford?
A year ago, my loving husband, my two boys, and I found ourselves in what the New York Times called, being stuck in our starter home. A decade earlier, my husband and I traded the busy sidewalks of Manhattan for a tree-lined suburb. We loved our house, but it had the hallmarks of a starter home. There were no extra bedrooms. There was no outdoor space. We lived within earshot of a busy road. But we loved it nevertheless—how its compact size fostered cuddling and how my dad could walk up our street from his place to come visit his grandsons.
A few years after buying the house, we were in a position for an upgrade but the market just wasn’t accommodating. We bid on seven houses. We lost all of them. I cried quite a bit. We felt stuck.