My desire for a home has eclipsed my desire for a baby

Surprise, surprise: the housing crisis and falling birthrates are connected

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When I was younger, as I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, I’d picture my perfect romantic partner—how we’d meet, fall in love, and begin our life together. I’d go over the plot again and again, picking up where I’d left off each night. They were perfect beyond realism, this person. The similarities between us were too convenient, our love unconditional to the point of madness, but it didn’t matter. It was only an exercise in falling asleep—something to soothe me when the real people I had romantic feelings for fell so desperately short. 

When I fell in love and into a real relationship, those exercises stopped. But as the years have ploughed on, they’ve been replaced with a new kind of wanting—one that’s all the more painful for its simplicity and realism: a home.  

Now, when I fall asleep, I dream of cookery books propped up against pots and doughy fingers on the corners of pages. I dream of extensive glassware—curves and edges and stems. I dream of shutting out the world and languishing in my own space, of stretching out on a sofa that belongs to me, that I could spill wine on without getting into trouble, though I’d try not to. 

“I want the money I earn to better my future, not someone already wealthier than me.”

I’ve “borrowed” homes ever since I left my parent’s house for university. I’ve had a good time renting over the years, admittedly when my threshold for dirt, disrepair and landlords was more tolerant. But now, I yearn for somewhere that’s mine. I want to be able to put a shelf up and not have to ask permission. I want the money I earn to better my future, not someone already wealthier than me. I want to feel safe to start a family or change careers without the threat of eviction hanging over my head. At thirty-one and with a decent career, this ‘dream’ shouldn’t be so far out of reach. But the whole housing game is broken, and it’s having a knock-on effect on other important life choices. 

Here in the UK, the government wants women to have more babies. The national birth rate is at an all-time low, and geriatric fingers are wagging at us in disappointment from Westminster. But this external pressure pales in comparison to that of the ominous Body Clock, whose ticking sound I’m only just beginning to hear in the back of my head. And yet, no amount of pressure from the government or my ovaries can crack through my apprehension: I feel like I can’t have a baby until I have a home. 

“In London, the average salary you'd need to earn to purchase a property without help is £135,252.”

I’m a sensible, cautious person. The mentality of “just have a baby and you’ll find a way to manage” has never sat right with me. What if I don’t find a way to manage? I have a suspicion that these kinds of sweeping statements are almost always made by those who have backup plans for their backup plans, or financial bail-outs only a quick phone call away.  

Telling women to just have babies also props up the tired stereotype that women should be mothers first and human beings second—that we should be noble and gracious in giving up our income, bodies and minds for a baby. Well, to be blunt: what if I don’t want to do that? What if I still want enough to have fun and treat myself? What if I still want to live, not just survive?   

If the country wants women to raise the birthrate, it has to do something about the housing crisis first. In London, the average salary you'd need to earn to purchase a property is £135,252. By contrast, the average salary earned by people in reality is just over £44,000. In my hometown of Brighton, it’s hardly any better. Oh, and it also costs an average of £14,836 a year to put a child through nursery full-time.

Journalist Vicky Spratt puts it perfectly in her column for i news: “How can you plan to bring new life into the world if you don’t know how much rent you’ll be paying next year? How can you think about getting pregnant when you know that childcare is so expensive that you may end up having to leave your job because it will be more cost-effective to stay at home?”

The stress of finding somewhere reliable to live is so great that, for many women, the concept of having a baby has been completely sidelined. For anyone who wants to own their own place, well, we should’ve started saving in the womb, shouldn’t we?! Should’ve come out of there with an ISA ready!    

If my genetics are anything to go by (my mother had me at thirty-six), I still have time. But I’m frustrated. Really, truly frustrated. In those former fantasies, there were moments when the plot extended far enough for me to have a swollen belly, or be holding something squirmy and loud in my arms. I hardly let myself think about it anymore. But when I do, it hurts. It hurts to know I’d be a really good mother if I had the chance or the choice. But until I feel some semblance of security over my head - until I can do it without drowning - it will have to stay just that: a fantasy.  

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