I'm jumping back into the housing market

It's time to move on.

Photo by Allan Vega on Unsplash

I was waiting for the text message from my landlord, Andre.

It comes like clockwork in May.

Usually, it’s about renewing my lease, along with the part where my rent goes up. Nothing outrageous. Just enough to remind me this isn’t 2020 anymore.

I dreaded it this year. Because I already knew my answer.

For the second straight year, I had to say yes.

Only this year was different.

When the text came last Saturday, just after 4 p.m, it was different.

“Building’s owner would not renew the lease,” Andre wrote. “The apartment planned to be remodeled and used to accommodate the relative.”

That was it.

I’m being booted from the only home I’ve known since moving to Chicago in 2017.

Just like that.

All I could say was, “OK. Thank you.”

A friend asked if that’s even legal. I told them over the weekend that I had no idea, but it is. Score another one for homeownership. When it’s yours, you call the shots.

Technically, I’m not being evicted. My lease just won’t exist anymore, which feels like a distinction mainly designed to make everyone involved feel better.

But I know this: I’m over it.

A couple of weeks ago, I had finally made peace with staying in our shoebox apartment for one more year. I wasn’t excited or proud. Just practical.

I convinced myself to stay by embracing the benefits of continuing to live below my means. Every dollar not going toward a luxury apartment, or an oversized mortgage payment, can go somewhere more productive.

That’s the blueprint. I’m sticking to it.

I had even started buying small things to make our place feel better. Furniture. A rug. Kitchen upgrades. Tiny investments in a temporary life.

I was settling in. Again.

And now, I’m not.

This changes everything.

Housing is the biggest expense most of us have, and now mine is staring me down like it’s been waiting for this moment.

I’m trying not to flinch.

What will I do?

Fortunately, I have a cushion.

Even though my lease is up at the end of this month, I’ve been told I have 120 days. A grace period, courtesy of local rules. That helps, but the clock is ticking. No more delaying. No more trying to find the perfect option while time slowly disappears.

What also helps is that I’ve been house hunting for more than a year. Casually at first. Then seriously. Then obsessively, like it’s a hobby I didn’t mean to pick up.

I know the listings. The neighborhoods. My budget. More importantly, I know what I refuse to pretend I can afford.

Finally, I’m ready. More ready than I’ve ever been.

Emotionally is another story.

It’s hard saying goodbye. I’ve grown comfortable here over the past 8 1/2 years, even if we lack convenience. The location is hard to beat. So is the rent.

But change was coming eventually.

This search has already been a roller coaster. High hopes, quick disappointments, the occasional “maybe this is the one” followed by a very clear “it is not.” I thought the ride was ending. Instead, it’s going into overtime.

I’ve got four months to find a home. Not just another lease. Not just another temporary fix. Something that feels like a step forward, not a step up solely because of a few more amenities.

I didn’t expect the decision to be made for me. Especially not via the annual May text I’d been waiting on.

But here we are.

Not evicted. Just redirected.

Same difference, depending on how you look at it.