This personal essay explores the emotional reality of being a mid-thirties millennial who’s caring, working, and still living at home — not by choice, but by necessity.

Essay:

Two days ago, my parents came back from overseas. I’d been anxious for a week, planning how to restock the fridge with food they’d want after their flight. I knew they’d be jet-lagged, and I wanted them to come home to comfort — snacks, meals, and a house that felt prepared for their return.

Between full-time work and exhaustion, I squeezed in errands during lunch breaks and after hours. By the time I’d finished, I’d missed yoga, hadn’t walked the dog, and could feel tension gathering in every part of my body. I told myself it was temporary — just until they were home and settled.

When they finally arrived, my mum asked me not to take the dog out yet because she wanted to see her when she got home. I listened, of course. I’ve always listened. I’ve always put her needs first. But when my parents walked through the door, the dog wasn’t excited to see them. She wasn’t excited to see me either. And that small disappointment felt like a metaphor for everything: the exhaustion, the emotional juggling, the way I’ve been trying to keep everyone else’s world intact while losing pieces of myself.

By Saturday, I still hadn’t done yoga. I managed a walk around the park with Winnie — our Kelpie, full of restless energy — but I was dragging. I’ve often pushed myself to keep up with her, even when I don’t have the energy. It’s the same instinct that pushes me to keep up with life.

The truth is, I’ve been feeling increasingly unlike myself. Not only because I’m tired, but because I no longer feel like I have a space where I can just be. This house is my home — the one I grew up in — and I love it. I feel safe here. But I also feel fragmented in it, like every ligament of my life is being pulled in a different direction.

At 36, I don’t own a property. I don’t have assets or savings to fall back on. Last financial year, I made $50,000 after tax — barely enough to rent independently, let alone save. And the thought of paying most of that to a landlord, knowing it’s going into someone else’s pocket, makes me feel sick. That money should be building my future. Yet, staying here feels like I’m standing still.

Many of my friends are partnered, combining incomes, buying property, or even starting families. I’m happy for them, truly. But there’s a quiet grief that comes from realizing how far your life feels from the norm — and how little control you have over closing that gap.

I try to find meaning in the garden. Over the last four years, I’ve poured hours into it: planting, mulching, nurturing, watching things grow. It’s one part of the house that feels mine. I’ve bought every bag of soil and every plant myself. It’s a reflection of the life I’ve built here — small, deliberate, and full of care. The garden is thriving, but some days I still feel like I’m wilting.

I know I’m not alone in this. I read stories every week of millennials moving back in with parents, not because they failed, but because the math of modern living doesn’t work anymore. Wages have stagnated, housing costs have soared, and independence has become a luxury rather than a rite of passage. We’ve built new definitions of adulthood: ones that include caretaking, compromise, and living in spaces that blur the lines between comfort and confinement.

Still, it’s hard not to feel the emotional cost of it. When I was younger, I imagined my mid-thirties as a time of stability — a home of my own, a steady rhythm, maybe a partner. Instead, I’m balancing emotional labour, limited space, and the kind of quiet loneliness that comes from not having a door that closes entirely behind me.

This house will always be home. But it’s also a reminder of the things I haven’t yet reached — or perhaps, haven’t been able to reach. I know I’m lucky to have a roof, to have safety, to have my parents. Yet even gratitude can’t erase the longing for autonomy, for a space where the only person I have to listen to is myself.

Until then, I tend the garden. I walk the dog. I carve small pieces of solitude from shared walls and overlapping routines. I remind myself that home isn’t only a place — it’s a practice. And even here, even now, I’m still learning how to make it mine.