Home Equity

The investments beneath the balance sheet

Alone, I walked through the front door for the first time. The house smelled clean. The floor shined. Flowers graced the kitchen counter. My footsteps echoed through the empty room. A swell of emotion rose inside me for all that went into this moment. Years of discussion with my husband. Months of searching for the right home. Miles traversed with our realtor. Financials calculated until our eyes crossed. All to culminate in stepping through the door.

From the threshold, this looks, sounds, and smells like a home purchase.

The view from the threshold

LeVon arrived. We popped the cork on one of our finest bottles of champagne, ambling through the house and musing about our vision for each room and each wall. No sooner had we begun making our mark on the space than Leo bounded through the door with a giant box of pizza. Neighbors congregated on the front lawn to introduce themselves and welcome us. In a flash, the private became public and the solitude became celebration.

We lit a bundle of sage, walking through each room to give thanks and release the past. We lit a stick of Palo Santo, retracing our steps to invite in future hopes and dreams. Yes, it was woo woo. But even the fourteen-year-old (who rolls his eyes at most of our suggestions) got into it.

The sage and the Palo Santo were gifts, offered by a friend when we mentioned our desire to clear the space after a dramatic closing process. The gleaming floors were a gift, initiated by our friend who brokered our mortgage. The flowers were a gift, sent to our doorstep by my parents.

In the week that followed, more gifts poured in. Our first piece of mail—an unexpected, handwritten card from a dear friend. A new couch—made possible by a generous surprise from my aunt. A new dining table—gifted by my parents. Every single moving box unpacked—courtesy of a herculean effort by my mom. A freshly mowed lawn—because our neighbor just felt like it.

It all sounds idyllic. But let’s not pretend that it’s all sparkly vibes and fairytale homeowner energy.

Buying a house is stressful, and our process, like most, was financially difficult. We didn’t ask for help. And by the bank’s ledger, we didn’t receive it. Our process necessitated levels of financial transparency and creative accounting that neither of us needed or wanted to share with one another. It required leaning on each other in new and uncomfortable ways. There’s no amount of sage that can clear away the financial sacrifices that made the transaction possible. You can’t ask the notary to light a stick of Palo Santo when fear creeps in over the reams of closing papers. And you can’t un-send the anxiety-riddled texts you shoot off to your realtor in the wee small hours the night before. Trust me, I’ve tried.

Our prior homeowner experiences were just as stressful, even if the balance sheets looked different. My first home purchase was made possible by the generosity of my in-laws. LeVon’s was made possible by his sole income and aggressive budgeting. I received outsized financial support; he received none. No matter the money, the investments were equally dicey. The foundations crumbled. Our marriages were rocky. Our lives were stressful. Money didn’t change that.

Ten years ago, when LeVon and I began laying the foundation for our life together, we didn’t do it with money. We knew it didn’t fix things and we didn’t have much of it anyway. We invested in each other in different ways. In our commitment to each other, irrespective of marriage. In showing up for each other’s kids during the hardest times. In the wild pursuit of a vineyard in Argentina. In growing a community around us.

When the door swung open to our first home purchased together, the contents inside were sparse. After all, a house is just a vessel—an expensive vessel, the prize at the end of a financial gauntlet, but a vessel nonetheless.

Our investment isn’t the vessel. It’s what’s poured inside. The burst of color in a flower vase. The sound of Leo’s piano drifting up the stairwell. The faint smell of sage and Palo Santo. The traces of the lawnmower in the grass. The texture of a handwritten card on my fingertips.

From the inside, this looks, sounds, and smells like far more.