Essay: Buying My First Home Broke My Heart, Put it Back Together, and Sent Me Into a New Era of Independence

You know those videos of people who go bungee jumping for the first time? All suited up, white-knuckling their safety harness, they take slow deep breaths as they inch toward the edge of the platform—one baby step at a time.

Not to overdramatize, but that’s how it felt when I decided to start the process of buying my first home. As a single woman in her early thirties, who had previously rented with roommates and then was able to move back home to save for a down payment, taking that leap was daunting.

The big questions flooded my brain constantly. “What if I can’t afford what I’m looking for?” “What am I even looking for?” “What if I choose the wrong neighborhood?” “What if I’m not cut out for the dog-eat-dog world of real estate?”

My anxiety tried to trick me into aborting the mission before it even started. “In this economy?” was another thought I had. “Maybe I should just rent.” Then, the words of the most financially literate person on the planet (my dad), would inevitably creep in, asking why I would throw money away to a landlord every month when I was in a place to build equity of my own. (Do parents always have to be right?)

I kept spiraling, until one day, something clicked. The discomfort of stagnancy was way worse than facing the fear of the unknown. So, I took that first step. In true millennial fashion, I sent a DM.

I had been following Molly Reed of Compass on Instagram—I loved the way she rallied for Baltimore community life and romanticized rowhomes on her feed—and we vibed from the start. Not only did she reassure me that I was financially ready, simply talking to her about what I wanted in a home made it all feel possible. At the end of what seemed like a perpetually uphill climb of calls, appointments, evaluations, and contracts, I was going to find four walls and a roof that were completely my own.

One thing Molly reiterated from the beginning was that the market moves at lightning speed. Before I knew it, I was set up with a loan officer—the endlessly patient Valentina Massa of Primary Residential Mortgage—pre-approved, and off to see what was out there.

MLS listings became my new favorite feeds to scroll. I put an offer in on the first place I saw, an updated Lake Evesham rowhome, and, of course, didn’t get it. But it was a great practice run for what was to come. For the girl who knew absolutely nothing about interest rates or property taxes when she started, every phone call and Docusign request was a welcome opportunity to learn the ropes.

Showings started to feel like online dating. You see the basics on the app, then meet in person if you get the sense it’s a good match. A month or so into swiping left and right, I went to tour a lovely rowhome in the Cedarcroft area of North Baltimore and broke the cardinal rule of matchmaking: Never fall in love on the first date.

At this point, I had a clearer picture of what was available in my price range, and this one—a spacious three-bedroom right in line with my budget—felt special. I was charmed by the natural light and well-kept gardens of the neighborhood. I put in a bid, and, for the next day or so, like the main character in a rom-com waiting by the phone for her crush to call, my stomach did cartwheels every time I got a notification.

After what felt like an eternity, Molly got back with good news. The sellers accepted. There was a contingency on their part that Molly explained thoroughly—basically, they had to commit to a new home before they could sell—but my rose-colored glasses convinced me it all would work out. I was under contract, baby.

We moved forward with the inspection and appraisal, but as we got closer to the deadline for the owners to resolve the contingency, I could feel my excitement waning. Something felt off. Ever the empath, I could sense Molly’s skepticism, too. This wasn’t her first rodeo. Sure enough, on the final day before the deadline, they backed out.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” everyone told me. While I knew this was true, it still sucked. I felt defeated, like I got dumped. I didn’t want to get back out there. But if those wise parents of mine taught me anything, it’s how to persevere.

At the end of what seemed like a perpetually uphill climb of calls, appointments, evaluations, and contracts, I was going to find four walls and a roof that were completely my own.

A month or so—and another declined offer—later, Molly put together a Sunday itinerary of showings around the Towson and Parkville areas. Among them was an end-unit rowhome whose front yard—brimming with ornamental grasses and shaded by the most beautiful Dogwood tree—made it feel like a hidden bungalow on a lively street. I walked up the path to find a mosaic-tiled porch that felt artsy and unique, like it was designed by a cool musician or museum curator.

Inside, a front-facing bay window, dark wood floors, newly carpeted bedrooms, a finished basement with a fireplace, a bright sunroom addition that led out to a deck, and a recent roof certification ticked all of the boxes. I didn’t want to let myself get too hyped, but it was so easy to envision life here—sipping coffee from my home office in the addition, greeting trick-or-treaters from the porch, watching the flowers bloom from the primary bedroom window.

We immediately jumped on it, and the owners matched our energy when they quickly accepted. (A good sign.) I really should have been over the moon, but this time, I treated being under contract like another inch forward, rather than a home-free sprint toward the finish line. Even though there were no concerning contingencies, I proceeded with caution—just in case.

On a chilly fall afternoon, the final walkthrough was just Molly and me. It felt quiet. With no inspectors or emotional support family members there to chime in, I finally let it all sink in. Black-and-white photos of my grandparents will soon hang on these walls. My friends will crack crabs and cans of beer on the back deck. All of my books and magazines will shine in the light of the sunroom.

As we headed out, Molly asked if I wanted her to take my photo on the stoop—which almost seemed like her way of saying, “You can exhale now, Lauren. You made it. It’s yours.”

The more I think about it, it was fitting that I flew solo for that last tour. Molly had become used to me bringing a small entourage to appointments to provide feedback (yes, my entire family was at the closing table), but, when all was said and done, this journey was my own declaration of independence. Of course—just like first-timers going bungee jumping—there are always people (from friends and family to realtors, lenders, housing counselors, and title processors) there to guide you. But my name is the only one on the deed, which makes me feel that much more accomplished every time I put my key in the door.

Sure, being a homeowner comes with the not-so-fun stuff, like remembering to change your air filters and pulling weeds in the backyard. But this new chapter has also inspired new interests. I’ve gotten to be an interior designer, an amateur botanist (fun fact: that Dogwood tree makes it rain little red kousa berries at the end of every summer), a host for visitors, and, perhaps most importantly, a reliable neighbor who is a part of a community—something I never fully got to embrace as a renter.

I’m also now a handywoman in training. For weeks after moving in, I didn’t have a proper dining room table. I finally ordered one, and my dad—who is just as good with a toolbox as he is with a budget spreadsheet—was ready and waiting for the call to come over to build it once it was delivered. But something told me I could do it myself. Had I ever assembled a piece of furniture before? Hard no. But I had just survived the rollercoaster of buying the place, surely this was something I could handle. I looked at it as a rite of passage.

Equipped with an Allen wrench, the instruction manual, and a sense of confidence I certainly did not possess a year prior, I laid out all of the parts, blasted a playlist, and got to work. It came together—one piece at a time.