Approaching 30, there’s a certain societal pressure to start checking off milestones with the same rapid pace of doing the weekly grocery shop. You’re meant to advance your career, marry your perfect partner and find a house. Add some kids to the mix and you have the traditional life roadmap. While the order of those elements is no longer set in stone like they used to be, the road most travelled hasn’t changed all that much.

Now that I have ticked two things off that list, I am beginning to feel the crunch of not owning a home. I live in a cosy but tiny apartment with my husband, which we only secured by virtue of moving to our capital city during the last Covid lockdown. People thought we were fools – why pay all that money when we were working from home? – but we were playing the long game. Move to Dublin when everyone else is leaving, take the initial financial hit, then when people are forced to flock back, we are sitting pretty. In theory anyhow.

It wasn’t smooth sailing initially. The first place we moved into was practically palatial by Dublin standards, but we soon discovered it was too good to be true when we found no less than 15 ashtrays in a kitchen drawer (bear in mind only one man lived in the apartment before us). After unplugging all the air fresheners, we realised a stale smell of smoke clung to every available surface. We scrubbed kitchen cupboards, had the entire apartment repainted and the couch replaced, to no avail. The horrific smell of nicotine seeped through the new coats of paint. It was like living inside a smoker’s lung, far from ideal when you are paying more than €1,400 per month between us.

Thankfully, our landlord took pity on us and agreed to move us into another one of their (many) apartments. This flat is small, with single-pane windows and a strange layout. There are four tiny rooms, inexplicably over three floors, and the bathroom ceiling is so low anyone taller than 5ft 5in can’t stand up straight in the shower. But beggars can’t be choosers, and thankfully, we are both short and sweet.

Since we’ve tied the knot, we are anxious to buy our first home. Even though we love our flat, all renters have one constant worry in the back of their minds: eviction. The yearly rent increases are another push factor. Our evenings are often spent online looking at homes for sale. Trying to find the perfect house for the both of us is proving to be a challenge.

I grew up in an old bungalow in the countryside. After many years of trying to convince myself I am a cosmopolitan city lover, I realise that at heart, I miss the quiet and expanse. At home I can walk a short distance and be surrounded by barley fields, and every summer they turn from velvet green to a shimmering gold sea, forming waves as the wind ripples through them. I can hear the birds singing, stray cats pop up at the house and are quickly adopted, fuzzy bumble bees laze about the garden, pollinating the flowers my mother has planted.

Meanwhile, my husband grew up in a new-build housing estate in a town. He is used to hearing noise – the slam of a car door, kids kicking a ball on the green, and being able to meet friends at the drop of a hat just by walking a short distance. The proximity of others is a comfort for him; if you need help, others are always there. Perhaps all these questions of what our preferences are is indulgent nonsense in this housing market. We haven’t started the process in earnest yet, but friends who are actively house-hunting tell of being denied viewings without mortgage approval in principle. They are outbid by people who are so desperate for somewhere to live they view the house once and without even getting a surveyor, slap down an offer. They view new builds with a floor plan the size of a postage stamp, built over three stories to squeeze maximum value out of the land.

However, I know that it’s not the building itself that makes a home but the people in it. My family’s house was far from perfect, but I always felt safe there. It was the place where my little sister came home from the hospital, where I celebrated my birthdays, where we opened up presents on Christmas morning.

I recently stayed in my family home and got up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water. As my hand reached towards the light switch in the dark, I was confused when the big beamy light turned on instead of the soft task lights. I realised that 10 years after moving out, I could no longer recall which switch corresponded to which light. This stunned me. Something that was once muscle memory has now been forgotten.

Time marches on, and so must I. My family house will always be a home to me, but it’s no longer my only home. My flat in Dublin with my husband is an oasis of calm in a noisy city. I feel at peace inside its five walls (the odd layout strikes again). I know exactly which switch controls what light. We won’t be here forever, but I want to enjoy it while it lasts. And hopefully, we can re-create the same feeling of homeliness in the house we hope to buy together. Just as long as it wasn’t previously owned by a smoker.