everything feels borrowed lately everything felt borrowed lately.

the coffee cups weren’t hers, not really.

the couch had moved from one living room to another so many times it didn’t belong to anyone anymore. the walls were white, like every rental before. clean enough, but not home.

she sat at the kitchen table on a thursday.

a breeze came through the cracked window and ruffled the corner of a flyer about school pictures. beside it—an unpaid bill, a banana too brown to save, and a list she couldn’t remember writing.

her daughter was upstairs, door shut.

hubby was on the couch, half-watching sports, half-scrolling his phone.

the house was quiet in that eerie way it gets when the day’s been too long but still not over.

nothing felt settled.

they’d talked about buying. of course they had.

it comes up every few months, usually when the lease renews or someone on facebook posts a new “just got the keys!” photo.

but between her health flare-ups, his work shifts, and the ever-growing grocery bill…

how do you even begin?

they tried looking at calculators—trying to figure out if renting was really “throwing money away” or if buying would just bury them in surprise bills and stress.

she found one guide that helped break it all down—comparing things like upfront costs, monthly budgeting, and even long-term goals like equity and flexibility [source].

it was honest about how the “right” answer depends on what season of life you’re in.

and honestly? she saw both sides.

renting meant breathing room. buying meant roots.

but what good are roots if you’re too anxious to rest?

she wasn’t afraid of commitment—just exhausted by it.

every decision lately felt like it came with a million tiny strings.

mortgage means savings.

savings means cutting back.

cutting back means less for the kiddo’s birthday, fewer takeout nights when she’s too tired to cook, maybe even skipping their weekend drives. the ones that keep them sane.

and what if they bought and still didn’t feel settled?

she used to dream about paint colors, about having a porch swing, about planting tulips in a yard they actually owned…

but lately?

lately, all she wanted was a week without appointments.

without chasing pills and energy and someone else’s expectations.

renting wasn’t ideal. but it let them breathe.

no roof repairs. no lawn drama. no six-figure what-ifs.

still… she noticed the way her daughter hesitated to put posters on the wall.

like maybe she’d have to take them down soon.

and that hurt more than she could say.

even the joy felt temporary.

borrowed.

like it came with a due date.

people don’t talk about this part.

how a home isn’t just a place to sleep—it’s where your identity sits.

where your memories live.

and when that place doesn’t feel fully yours… neither do you.

but here’s what she held onto:

the way her daughter still crawled into bed some mornings, all elbows and blanket.

the way hubby made grilled cheese just the way she liked it—burnt edges and all.

the smell of cinnamon buns in the oven, even if the oven belonged to someone else.

she started noticing that joy didn’t always have to be earned or owned—it could be borrowed.

some days, just seeing someone else smile... hearing a friend talk about good news... it lifted the edge off her own heavy day.

and that’s a real thing—borrowing joy.

she’d read something once that explained it better than she ever could… how sharing in someone else’s good moment could soften your own hard one [source].

so maybe the couch wasn’t hers.

maybe the house wasn’t either.

but the laughter? the tiny, borrowed bits of peace? the inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else?

those were hers.

and for now… that was enough.