I’ve moved home with my parents in my 30s and, weirdly, life is better

In one way or another, we’ve all been touched by the cost-of-living crisis. Perhaps we’ve noticed the blowout of the weekly grocery shop, or maybe we’ve had to give up our daily coffee.

For me, a higher cost-of-living has led me to take the somewhat drastic step of moving back in with my parents. In 2021, I bought a property with a manageable mortgage, but consecutive interest rate rises over the following years made repayments hard. So, after more than 15 years of living independently, I rented out my place and can now be found sleeping in the upstairs bedroom of my family home, crammed in among my books and art that previously populated an entire apartment.

Elsie Flanagan-O’Neil with her parents.

While I stayed at the family home for short periods throughout my 20s, to save for a trip or a house deposit, there is something altogether different about moving in with your mum and dad as a 30-something woman. And though my parents were thrilled to take me in (it was initially their suggestion), it has certainly required some adjustments.

One of the challenges has been my rapid regression to my teenage self. I have lived alone for years, and have easily managed to wake up on time, wash my clothes and cook my dinner. But within weeks of returning to my parents’ place, it became all too tempting to outsource these mundane tasks.

I throw my dirty clothes into the laundry and find them, later that day, clean, folded and sitting on my bed. I come home in the evening without any plans for dinner, knowing that something delicious will nevertheless be served. I tell Mum I’m a grown woman and very happy to do my own cooking and cleaning, but she and I both know my protests are feeble. Sure, I’m capable of looking after myself, but with semi-retired parents at home, do I really need to?

Another drawback of moving home has been sharing space with other people again. Whether I’m competing for the TV remote or fishing soft plastics from the recycling bin, I’m keenly aware that I’m making allowances and biting my tongue more often than I have in years.

But by far the most unpleasant aspect of a return home is the embarrassment. People in their 30s should be out in the world, standing on their own feet, paying for the roof over their heads and putting food in their mouths.

Of course, my friends and family know I’m an independent person. It’s the new people I meet that I’m wary of. At parties, encountering friends of friends, I crack self-deprecating jokes about my living situation, hoping laughter will lower their raised eyebrows. When dating, I try to avoid the topic altogether; I vaguely mention that I have older housemates and then ask the man I’m with something distracting, like whether he’d rather have dinner with Putin or Trump.

But while I’ve reverted to a child-like dependence on my parents, their insistence on helping me has given us countless opportunities to spend time together. Yes, I could clean my car by myself, as I have for years. But Dad loves hooking up the high-pressure hose. He talks me through each of the different soaps and the parts of the car they’re suited to. He reminds me to fill the washer fluid and check the oil. It’s an easy job that could be done in minutes and in silence, but we stretch it out across a sunny Saturday morning because it means we’re doing it together.

The return has required compromises, but it’s also given me the opportunity to get to know my parents as an adult. Our conversations used to be restricted to what happened at school or what time I’d be home. But now as 6pm rolls around, we pour a drink and in the garden talking about the depth and complexity of life. They ask me about my work and plans for the future. I listen to them as they speak tenderly about the increasing number of their friends with health issues.

Yes, there’s a sense of indignity to be felt when you realise the world is too big and scary, and you retreat to your parents’ home with your tail between your legs. But there is something special about spending time with the people who raised you. I see a lot of my niece and nephews, and I witness the intensity required to parent young children. Sometimes, I catch Mum with an expression on her face like she wants to pull me into a hug and never let go. She resists this urge, probably reminding herself that I am an adult and not a child to be coddled.

Living alone brings freedom, independence and a sense of empowerment. But living with parents brings the rare opportunity to spend time with people who love us, and whom we love.

I still don’t know how long I’ll stay in the sanctuary of the family home, but as cuts to interest rates are dangled tantalisingly, I wonder whether I’ll be ready to move out again, even if and when I can afford it.

There is a cost of living with the parents. But the joys of moving home far outweigh it.

Elsie Flanagan-O’Neill is a freelance writer.

The Opinion newsletter is a weekly wrap of views that will challenge, champion and inform your own. Sign up here.