I bought my first property at 22 — and I’m not ashamed to say it was only possible because my dad helped fund it while he was moving abroad. Because, realistically, what 22-year-old can afford a mortgage alone? On paper, it read well — responsible, ahead of the curve, exactly the sort of decision that makes adults nod approvingly. In reality, it felt like being handed a life I hadn’t ordered. Fixed rates, fixed expectations, permanence before clarity. It didn’t feel like freedom; it felt like admin with consequences.
Property, culturally, still functions as social currency. Not just something you have, but something that says something about you — stability, success, seriousness. It hums beneath conversation. Not where you live, but whether you own it. Not how you live, but what it implies.
And yet, the numbers have quietly stopped cooperating.
In London, average house prices sit above £500,000 while salaries hover closer to £40,000. The gap isn’t a hurdle; it’s structural. Most people aren’t on the ladder and, increasingly, aren’t planning on being. The aspiration lingers like a habit — mentioned, not necessarily believed.
Spend enough time here and you start to notice how ownership rearranges everything around it. It isn’t just a purchase; it’s a plot twist. Geography shifts, routines harden, spontaneity becomes something you schedule. I’m currently looking at one-beds — trying not to have a full mental breakdown every time I open Rightmove — that cost the emotional equivalent of a minor breakdown, and still unwilling to leave Notting Hill. It has, inconveniently, felt like home. The suburbs don’t repel dramatically; they repel politely — with the quiet certainty that my life would shrink in ways that look sensible on paper and feel wrong in practice.
That’s the trade we gloss over. Buying is less an upgrade than a re-edit. Distance over proximity. Time over ease. “It’s only temporary” doing a lot of heavy lifting. I’ve watched friends make the move — stretch, relocate, rebrand compromise as strategy. It’s presented as a rite of passage. But from the inside, it can look suspiciously like a detour.
A friend recently showed me her new place — £1.4 million for what is, essentially, a beautifully styled basement flat. Low ceilings, compromised light, an outdoor space that exists more in theory than in use. It photographs impeccably — London property’s favourite trick — but in person, the gloss fades.
This is it.
This is what the ladder looks like now.
Which reframes the question entirely. Not just can you afford it, but why are you buying into it?
