When Keeping Up Catches Up

No one knows drama like a millennial renting in the city. As someone who spent most of her 20s living in London, I can tell my fair share of horror stories. From witnessing a side-style kill shot in Kilburn (he missed, thankfully) to cohabiting with a self-proclaimed possessed old lady in an illegal council sublet—I’ve truly seen too much. A decade of house-hopping brought new depth to the phrase “started from the bottom.” But now, in my 30s, Drake would be proud because, “we here.” And ‘here’ is a cozy cottage in a quiet village where, at long last, I’m a homeowner.

Last year, after our landlord raised what was already an obscene rent for a one-bedroom, half a cat-swinging bedroom Hampstead Townhouse, charming as it was, we were done. It was time to break up with renting—and with London—to find somewhere in the countryside we could actually afford.

Our search took us to Hertfordshire, a county I knew from my school days.

If snobbery were an Olympic sport, Hertfordshire would bring home the gold.

Of course, it’s not alone—British snobbery is a national pastime and a proud export.

When living as a British expat in Canada, meeting a fellow Brit meant navigating an instant nose turn depending on which locale I claimed. Nose up for London. Nose down for Hackney.

Estate agents in Hertfordshire villages are seasoned players in this game. Eager to trash the neighbouring village, each agent pitched their parish as the superior spot. From our perspective, it was hilarious. To us, the UK was divided into London, not-quite-London-but-close, and definitely-not-London. Hearing villages within walking distance bicker over cultural cachet was comedy gold. Coming from Hampstead, snobbery’s ancestral home, I decided I’d rise above it and create my own criteria.

Raising Standards

After a week of searching (yes, a single week!), we found a miracle—by millennial standards. A 300-year-old period cottage in desperate need of TLC, but crucially, affordable (affordable is the millennial standard). It had been sitting on the market for over a year, a listed gem in need of work, and was reduced right into our price range. My husband and I saw the potential and pounced. And just like that, after a decade of chaos—rogue landlords, roommate rumba, rent roulette—we became homeowners.

Like a culturally ambiguous guest at a Black cookout—I was honoured, a little unsure yet very, very grateful. I made a mental note to hold onto that feeling. The days of hustle and housing insecurity were over. We turned the fixer-upper into a dream: standalone tub, double sinks, a walk-in wardrobe, ensuite, guest rooms, an office, even a dedicated makeup nook. A miracle, really. And I was content.

Until I wandered into the next village.

It was a golden autumn afternoon. A village fair was in full swing, the kind of scene you’d find on a jigsaw puzzle.

The locals were giving posh. Definitely Waitrose, maybe even Daylesford Farms. When I mentioned I lived just five minutes away, they gave me the nose-down look. I was apparently not local enough—and I was fuming.

We’d actually considered buying in that village. But the only house in budget had no garden and needed even more work. After weighing up both villages and declaring them equally “not London,” we chose the fixer upper as it was still in Hertfordshire nestled in it's own charming village. Our decision not to stretch was intentional, like most Londoners, navigating monthly payments more extortionate than a mortgage for a multi-million pound house, we were familiar with the feeling of having the bulk of our income tied up in the roof over our heads. Being smart would free up money to travel, maybe invest abroad. Plus after a decade of going full speed I was ready for less pressure. Recovering from burning out from running my business and was ready to slow down and actually enjoy life. Sounds like a plan, right?

Until comparison crept in, and suddenly I was eyeing houses in the next village. Bigger ones. With bigger gardens. That would come with bigger responsibilities and a bigger mortgage. Maybe it was worth it? Maybe someday. In a capitalist society, the next step is always more, right?

A few months later I visited a friend who had just moved into a stunning property—double the size of ours, in a village straight out of Country Living. I looked around and said, “So this is it for you, right?”

“No,” she said. “We’re thinking of upgrading in a few years.”

I blinked. It was just the two of them and they already had more space than most families. What could possibly be next? And at what cost? More work, more stress. Less peace. Less time. And time, as we all know, is the real luxury.

In her response, I saw my own madness reflected back at me. Chasing a bigger house out of postcode envy wasn’t going to add joy to my life—it was just going to impress people who don’t even know my name. And let’s be honest, the next village over would snub me just the same. Could a swankier house beat having the freedom to work less or see the world more? Not a chance.

Check Your Privilege

I’m not here to shame “more.” I love more. This magazine is about more. The universe loves more. I’ve manifested plenty of it. But I’m learning to choose my more wisely. Before you chase the next upgrade, ask yourself: does it really add value? Or is it just another way to stay on the treadmill?

Dr. Libby Weaver, author of Rushing Woman’s Syndrome, writes about women who are 'tired but wired', burnt out, and buried under the weight of their never ending plate of more. The toll? Hormonal chaos. Autoimmune flare-ups. Depression. Digestive dysfunction. Sound familiar?

“You might notice the impact of the rush on your external world—perhaps in the lack of downtime or your closest relationships—yet when you ask your glands and organs… to cope with your rush, you may not even realise what undue stress you are putting them under.”-

-Dr Libby Weaver, Rushing Woman's Syndrome

In my healing era, Dr. Weaver’s work changed everything. Her advice on managing cortisol, syncing with your cycle, and saying “no” helped reverse years of chronic period pain, weight gain, and low mood. I’d hustled hard because I had to—but when rest finally arrived, was I really going to throw it away to keep up appearances? I chose not to.

I see it in my friends too. So many are stretched thin, stressed out, sick—and yet, when life offers an off-ramp, they still hit the gas. I was the same. Dining out multiple times a week, stacking memberships, keeping pace. More was the only language I knew.

But now that I’ve tasted peace? I speak fluent Less.

Dr. Weaver puts it perfectly: “The swing between rushing and not rushing is driven by our beliefs, and our behaviour is an expression of those beliefs. Unless we question the beliefs on which our actions are based, the actions will likely continue.”

After seeing my own toxic beliefs mirrored in my friend’s restlessness, I paused. Was I chasing more out of inspiration—or out of habit? I tallied what “less” had given me this past year: peace. Presence. A body that wasn’t screaming at me. Non-braggable gains that transformed my life. This was the kind of more I actually wanted—more freedom, more time, more energy. Less stress. Less preforming. I’d been there, and nothing is worth going back.

In the face of patients seriously suffering from burn out, Dr. Weaver confesses that in our more-is-more society, she often wants to say what no one will:

“There is a part of me that wants to tell people to sell their house, buy something cheaper, spend less, want less—because I am yet to experience a house that comes close to outweighing the importance of human health. No house is worth it.”

-Dr Libby Weaver, Rushing Woman's Syndrome

Without the space that “less” gave me, I would never have rediscovered my passion for writing. I wouldn’t have launched this very magazine—something I’ve dreamed of since my early days in fashion PR, journalism and media. In this slower pace, long-held dreams are quietly unfolding.

In this capitalist, Instagrammable world where more is always on the menu, I dare you to rethink your wishlist. How much of your “more” is for you, and how much is to impress people who’ll never matter? Be honest. Update your vision board. Ask yourself—who are these goals really for? You? Or the snobs over the road?

Don’t perform for faceless followers. More isn’t more if it costs you peace.

Fu*k the Joneses'.

-Written by Lois Aymes Wilson