I’ve been homeless twice before in my life. Not out on the street homeless, thankfully, but I’ve certainly slept in my car on more than one occasion. I’ve crashed on friend’s couches, in their spare rooms, on a mattress on their living room floor. I’ve even slept in a hastily constructed bed in an actual factory.

Both occasions of previous homelessness were after the break down of a relationship, so I had some semblance of control, in retrospect. This time, however, I am homeless because the house I was living in is being demolished and nobody – NOBODY – will accept me for a new property. I have gone from almost always getting the property I wanted pretty much straight away, to being rejected multiple times for properties that aren’t worth the rent being asked. That’s the thing, even if I could afford some of these properties, I have learned over the last year that I cannot guarantee that I would even be accepted for one of these properties – despite my renting history. And this seems to be because I’m a self-employed business owner who is also on Centrelink. And I have cats.

The term “housing crisis” doesn’t seem to cut it. I’ve heard a few landlords complain about rising land tax or interest rates or whatever (I don’t know, I’m not and never will be a homeowner), which is then put on to the tenants as higher rent. But here’s the thing, we’ve seen exponential growth in rental prices over the past 5 years that aren’t matched by income growth. Example: There’s a 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house for rent in Carnegie in 2025 that is going for $625 a week. In 2021, it leased for $550. In 2010, it was leased for $450. So, over 11 years – 2010 to 2021 – the rental price only went up $100 a week. Then suddenly, in the last 4 years, it shot up by $75.

Another 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom property in Hughesdale: circa 2013 rent was $460 a week. It went up to $495 in 2022. Today, it’s advertised at $650 a week.

Now, for many people, this seems to be reasonable. It’s not for me, as my income has barely changed since 2022. So how am I supposed to afford a $650 a week rent when I have a $530 a week rent-worthy income? Someone explain that to me without resorting to the out-of-touch conservative opinion of “get a better job.”

The thing is, I have a decent income. It’s not huge by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m not at the bottom of the barrel. I can stretch my income to cover a higher rent, I’m canny in the ways of making it work. But here’s a story for you. I applied for a property that was listed at $590 a week. The real estate agent said I had a good application. I didn’t get the property. Less than a week later, the property has been relisted at $570 a week. Apparently, I’m so unattractive to landlords that they’d rather drop the price to get a more desirable tenant than take a chance on a self-employed actor who was willing to pay $20 more.

I don’t get it.

We’re told rental prices are going up because interest rates have risen. We’re told there’s a shortage of rental properties overall, so supply isn’t meeting demand. We’re told there’s extreme competition for properties. If this is so, why then are people like myself being rejected for properties that are then relisted for less?? It doesn’t make sense! Something else is going on here, something far more insidious. My inner suspicious quasi-conspiracy theorist is saying that They (yes, capital T they) are trying to push the undesirables out of the inner city. The artists, the poors, the disabled, the depressed. We’re unworthy of not just good housing, but any housing. Even social and commission housing is backed up. There’s a 10 year wait to even get a look in. Believe me, I’ve checked.

(Side story: I grew up in New Zealand’s version of commission housing, what we called state housing. My childhood home was a badly haunted, poorly maintained house in one of South Auckland’s most notorious suburbs. My mother made that house into a home and taught me the importance of creating your own space in any environment through that house, but it was dark time in my young life. The energy in that place exacerbated my mother’s violence, and I spent a lot of the 12 years we lived there in survival mode. The well-meaning people who now suggest that I apply for social housing have a limited understanding of the connotations I have with that kind of housing, and how much of a backward step that would be for me mentally. Having said that, I have looked into and even started an application for social housing, because I’m 48 years old and should not be sleeping in my friends’ spare bedroom on the other side of town from my clients. For the third time in my life.)

I got really low last night, thinking about all this. My cats are staying with another friend on the other other side of town, and I miss them dreadfully. I recently had a crisis of faith regarding my career, and last night it all crashed into each other and created a despair soup that I splashed around in for a while. I cried. Quite hard. Last week, my father made a short sighted comment about my predicament. “I’m sorry, Kristina,” he said. “There’s no knight in shining armour coming to save you.” I got pissed off and shot back, “When has there ever been a knight in shining armour to save me, Dad? I don’t expect one because there’s never been one!” And it’s true. I’ve had help, most definitely. No more so than within the last 8 years. But no one’s ever “saved” me. I don’t think anyone can (and if anyone claimed they could, I would be very distrustful of them).

We’re in a seriously fucked up place as a society right now. Like, my problems are the least of my problems, if you know what I mean. It’s very easy to fall into despondency; to give into the anguish. I’m in no place to offer advice to anyone as I flap around uselessly in my soup but perhaps acknowledging that no one is coming to save us at least roots us in reality.

Just be kind, ffs. I’m saying this to myself as well as you, reader. And you, Universe, who seems to be merrily throwing chaos into the cosmos. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how things will or will not change. Last night I wanted to die, today I wanted crumpets. Somewhere in the middle there might be the answer.