I bought a house at the peak of the market because everyone said prices would keep rising.

My parents told me renting was throwing money away. My colleagues were all buying. My broker kept saying inventory was tight and prices only moved in one direction. I was thirty-four, had a decent deposit, and felt the pressure of a clock only I could hear.

I bought a two-bedroom terrace in a suburb I did not love but could afford. The repayments were manageable if I did not think too hard about the rest of my expenses. Six months after settlement, rates rose. My variable mortgage repriced three times in twelve months. The repayments increased by six hundred dollars a month. I stopped contributing to my pension and cut nearly everything I enjoyed.

The house was a real asset but it was also an emotional decision dressed as a financial one. I was buying belonging and status as much as property. The market did not care about either.