The Joys of Homeownership (and Other Lies I Believed at Closing)

Because nothing says “we’re thriving” like crying into your mortgage statement at 11:47 PM.

There’s a moment—right after you close on your first home—when you feel like an actual grown-up.
You’re holding keys. Real keys. Not the kind with a "DO NOT COPY" warning or the name of a property manager named Janet who once fined you for your wind chimes.
No, these are your keys. To your home.
And in that glorious, naïve moment… you believe.
You believe in peaceful mornings, freshly cut grass, and weekends filled with “simple DIY projects.”

You fool.

See, I rented for most of my adult life. College apartment? Rented. First place after graduation? Rented. My wife and I’s first place together? Also rented—and came with a landlord who insisted “those aren’t termites, they’re just enthusiastic ants.”

Renting was easy. Something broke? Call a guy. No stress. No tools required. No watching YouTube tutorials titled “How to fix drywall without crying.”

But renting also came with this frustrating sense of limbo. You can’t make the place yours. You can’t paint the walls, upgrade the flooring, or install that ridiculous statement light fixture your wife found on clearance but now claims is “the emotional center of the room.”

Everything felt temporary. Even our furniture choices were filtered through the lens of “Will this fit in the next place?”
When we bought our first couch, it was comically too big for our apartment—but we bought it anyway. Because it was ours. And we were dreaming ahead. Dreaming of a home.

And then—miracle of miracles—we bought one.

A modest house. Great neighbors. A driveway we didn’t have to share with a guy who grilled shirtless year-round. We were thrilled. Terrified. But thrilled.

Cue the chaos.

Because no one tells you that homeownership is just crisis management with equity.

Something breaks? That’s on you now.
Water leak? Better find the shutoff valve and Google “how to not panic.”
Strange smell from the basement? Probably fine. Or maybe a sign of your emotional unraveling. Hard to say.

Our first major disaster came thanks to a combination of one lovable dog and one very questionable decision.

My wife, with nothing but good intentions and a half-full bottle of dog shampoo, decided to bathe our new pup in the upstairs tub.
An innocent act.
An ambitious act.

What followed was an aquatic event so catastrophic it might’ve required FEMA. Water came through the ceiling. Through the light fixtures. Through my soul.

We had thirty industrial fans in the house. For four days.
Imagine trying to sleep inside a jet engine while wondering if you still love your spouse.
We were down to one bathroom, had a wet confused dog, and a fan-induced migraine that still triggers when I hear oscillation.

But we survived.
We patched drywall. Called in favors. Got creative with repairs.
We made upgrades—some planned, some aggressively forced by nature. We learned the names of tools.

Then came the hail.
Then the insurance claims.
Then the first adjuster who communicated like a professional… and the second who ghosted us harder than a high school crush.

At a certain point, I stopped calling it a house.
It was The Project.
My time, money, and sanity went in.
An endless to-do list came out.

And yet… I wouldn’t trade it. Not for a second.

Because something else started to happen, quietly and beautifully, between all the chaos and contractor callbacks.

This place—this loud, leaky, lovable mess—became home.

It’s the place where my toddler raced down the hallway yelling “I HAVE TO PEE” like it was a Marvel movie trailer.
It’s the place where my teenager sulks and thrives and makes his room just messy enough to maintain plausible deniability.
It’s the place where we danced in the kitchen on a random Tuesday because the spaghetti turned out surprisingly great.
It’s where we built forts, told bedtime stories, fought about wall colors, and celebrated job offers.
It’s where we lived. Really lived.

Because home isn’t about the trim or the tile. It’s not about square footage or zip code or how much you spent on your backsplash.

It’s about knowing the exact sound your kid’s feet make when they’re sneaking out of bed.
It’s about a front porch that holds laughter and long conversations.
It’s about making memories in a place that feels like yours, even when the sink is leaking and the dryer makes a sound that might be Morse code for “call an electrician.”

I don’t get to make many decisions in this house.
That’s not a complaint—it’s just a fact. My wife has impeccable taste.
She’s turned this house into something I never could’ve imagined on my own.
She sees the potential. I see the price tag.
She dreams in accent walls. I dream in HVAC bills.
But together? We’ve built something beautiful.

Let the kids decorate their rooms. Let the hallway get scuffed. Let the laundry pile up now and then.

Because if you’re lucky enough to share a roof—even a flawed, forever-under-construction one—then you’re lucky enough to have a home.

And here’s the truth: you don’t have to own it to make it yours.
A rented apartment, a tiny duplex, a fixer-upper, or a brand-new build—it doesn’t matter.
What matters is who’s inside.
If you're together, if you're building memories, if you're laughing, crying, surviving snack time and bedtime and leaky ceilings side by side—
then you already have everything you need.

That’s home.

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Tonight’s Cocktail: “The House Always Wins”
A strong pour for the man who just spent $412 at Home Depot and forgot the one thing he went in for.

• 1½ oz mezcal

• ¾ oz Cynar

• ½ oz fresh lime juice

• ½ oz honey syrup (1:1 honey to water)

• 1 dash orange bitters

• Shake with ice, strain over a big rock in a lowball glass

• Garnish with a slapped sage leaf or just the receipt from your latest renovation

Sip it slow. Let the smoky bitterness remind you of that time you tried to fix the faucet yourself.

You’ll laugh. Eventually.