When I drive through neighborhoods marked by economic hardship, I often notice dilapidated houses with half-repaired cars in the backyard, old faded couches on the porch, cluttered sheds, and toys strewn about haphazardly. I used to wonder why people who have so little seem to accumulate so much. Why are their yards bursting at the seams? Why are their sheds and tents overflowing with stuff?
Today I understand: I am becoming one of those people.
I have been living in my 4 1/2 semi-basement in Hull since 2019. After my divorce, I needed a safe and familiar place to recharge and rebuild myself. I decided to move, but to stay in the neighbourhood I love. I have been a resident of the Wright–Lac-des-Fées neighbourhood for 15 years. I built my life there, built my family. My daughters are deeply rooted in the community. They know it like the back of their hand, and it is where their friendships are.
But since 2019, the world has changed dramatically. The COVID-19 pandemic has exacerbated an already simmering housing crisis, turning it into a serious and seemingly insurmountable problem. My finances have been hit time after time — from the pandemic’s impact on my ability to work while caring for my children to fighting a SLAPP lawsuit to ending my divorce settlement.
Despite these challenges, I persevered. Saving where I could, taking on extra contracts, working tirelessly. Yet five years later, I still can’t afford to buy a house and I feel like that dream is only getting further away from me as the crisis continues to deepen, real estate prices continue to rise, and everything else becomes prohibitively expensive.
I worry that I’ll never be able to buy a house. I worry that my eldest will never know the joy of a space she can truly call her own. I can’t move apartments—rents have skyrocketed since I moved in. I’m lucky that my landlord has only raised the rent once in five years, a rarity for most renters. Meanwhile, real estate prices in my neighborhood have shot up by more than 150 percent, and city assessments reflect the absurdity of the market. Five or six years ago, you could still find a three-bedroom, love-sick house for $180,000. Now, the price of a vacant lot in my neighborhood is $200,000.
Watching everything fall around you
I love my neighbourhood deeply. Since 2014, I have served on and off on the school board, volunteered for multiple causes and contributed to many community organizations. I am now the president of our neighbourhood association. I have invested time, money and immeasurable attention into this little piece of paradise. After my divorce, it has been my constant, my anchor, like my network of friends and support. Yet, I am facing the heartbreaking reality that I may be forced to leave everything behind.
I live in uncertainty. I buy things cheaply because I tell myself I’ll move soon. But sometimes I fall into the opposite trap: I buy things that I hope will last, but I have no place to store them. My small space is filled with boxes, shelves, bags, things that come in and out of my shed, things that I can’t part with but can’t keep because I don’t have space. I even have friends who store boxes for “when I move.” In my yard, there is now a durable shed, next to a small tin shed, next to a tent, all filled with the excess of my life—a life that feels increasingly precarious and improvised.
Everything around me seems to be falling apart, just like what I feel inside. I have always sacrificed my needs for the needs of others, I have always given my time and attention to a neighborhood that now seems to be pushing me to leave. I have given everything, and I am left with so little.
I am an intelligent and hardworking person. I have years of experience, a well-paid job and ” side hustles » well-paid. I get help from my friends—help that’s invaluable. I recognize my privilege. And yet I still can’t afford to rent a better place or make the effort to buy in my neighborhood. I’ve written letters to landlords, hoping they’ll consider my below-market offer. I’ve posted ads on Facebook in neighborhood groups, hoping to find a guardian angel. My only real gems are for sale on Marketplace, and I’ve waited in line at food banks and cut back on child care to save, save, save.
I’ve done everything I can think of to try to get by. And if someone with as much privilege as I have can’t do it, what about people who aren’t as privileged? It’s no wonder the number of people experiencing homelessness is increasing, there’s nothing affordable anymore! And mind you, we’re seeing men on the streets the most, not because women find housing easier—far from it! It’s because women often stay in abusive relationships instead of choosing to be homeless. How is that a choice people have to make? It’s insane, it’s inhumane.
Take the bull by the horns
I am writing this because people need to understand the gravity of the current crisis. It is incomprehensible that more is not being done to ease the financial pressure on individuals. It disgusts me that while some people are living in mansions on royal estates or buying tickets to space for fun, others are struggling to meet basic needs such as food and shelter. It disgusts me that people are taking advantage of this crisis, that some are continuing to maximise their profits, whether by inflating the price of bread, underpaying their employees or exploiting the tax system.
I don’t understand why some politicians still call on people in my situation to cut down on their latte consumption (which I rarely buy, of course), and don’t call on big corporations to pay their taxes fairly. My savings on lattes don’t match the income that the rich could bring to ease financial stress.
The housing crisis is not a conceptual problem, and it will not be solved by small, isolated actions. This crisis requires transformative, collective, and creative solutions. Every level of government must play a role, and there is no single solution for every sector. Taxing the rich is one approach, but why not also reduce taxes for those who give back to their community? In Gatineau, where housing is cheaper than Ottawa, we see an influx of people buying properties to rent out or Airbnb, and not investing in the local community. We lower the welcome tax for every 10 hours invested in a neighbourhood through volunteer work! Or why not limit the number of properties you can own or the profits you can make from basic needs like housing? Why aren’t we doing more to support single-parent families, many of whom are headed by women?
If my salary is 80% of a man’s, shouldn’t I get a 20% tax break or reduction on my purchases, including a house? Maybe that would motivate the government to work faster and harder for equal pay…
In Canada, there are many smart and capable people with ideas to solve this problem, but progress remains slow. Even simple changes, like adjusting zoning to help with densification, take forever.
I am writing this to raise awareness, to present a different point of view, but I think above all it is a way for me to grieve. I am coming to terms with the fact that I may have to leave the neighborhood I call home. It is probably not a big deal for many people to sacrifice one area for another, there are much worse situations, but for me, it is my little piece of paradise, my little family happiness to which I am saying goodbye.