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As I grew up in Sydney in the 90's, I would often hear my parents reflect on how they were "lucky to buy in" before the "housing boom".
They'd marvel at how "lucky" they were to buy a three-bedroom house, complete with backyard and granny flat, in a village-esque suburb 20 minutes from the CBD, for just a couple-hundred grand.
Wide-eyed and young, I let their excitement seep in.
At the age of eight, I was not really paying that much attention to the realities of a mortgage and homeownership. I had much more important things to do, you see, such as working on my makeshift tree house and catching lizards and frogs in the aforementioned backyard.
But their lived dream and excitement stayed with me, and became part of my own imagining.
As I cycled through my neighbourhood's streets, I'd pick out which home would one day be mine. Maybe the weatherboard cottage with the Jacaranda tree and the swing, or the terrace with the overgrown fishpond out front, because it gave Secret Garden vibes.
Playing those games, I genuinely believed homeownership was just a matter of time and some hard work.
As I got older, that dream changed. Maybe an art deco apartment, with a glimpse of the harbour, if I was "lucky". Maybe a one-bedroom unit with a sun room could be just enough space for myself, a partner and a child.