I hate myself because I don’t have a holiday home like my friends

I didn’t come from a family that ever had a holiday home. As a child, we moved around a lot. Sometimes we lived in flats, sometimes we house-sat for other people and then eventually we acquired one home, the home we lived in together. When you’re a child, you don’t really think about how things will net out as you grow up. I do remember lying in bed, wondering whether I’d be a famous actress like the women in Charlie’s Angels or a newsreader. I certainly thought I’d have time on my hands and that my children would have left home (I had them in my 40s so they’re still here). But what I didn’t think was that I’d be surrounded by friends who’d have more than one home. Who needs two houses? And in some cases three. Once I got into my 50s, this thing of friends having holiday homes just started happening. I didn’t notice it at first. I guess I wasn’t privy to the conversations about buying these homes, how they could afford it and how these secondary residences were probably going to be of a similar size to my actual home. I had an old friend who came over recently, and she announced: “This place would make a charming holiday cottage!” She thought it was a compliment, implying it was homely and relaxing, but it left me rattled. Having your main place of residence compared to a seaside hideaway can make even the most confident homeowner feel status anxiety. Shorts At the end of the summer, I’ve been invited to a university friend’s second home. I love this person. She’s cool. She’s done very well. I do not feel jealous of other aspects of her life. This holiday home thing, though, is triggering. It’s in Cornwall, and I should be happy that I get the chance to hang out there. I love Cornwall! Instead, however, I know that I can be a bitter old toad (I’m working on it), and I’ll find the experience hard. I only found out she had a holiday home recently. We were chatting, and she told me that they’d spent last summer in “the house by the sea”. I asked if it was an AirBnB and she said: “No, it’s our holiday home. Just a little pad. A bolt hole. Nothing fancy. Pretty basic.” I noticed immediately that she was minimising this space. It was tiny. Not luxurious. It was a bit rough in places. I respected her as I know sometimes it can be hard when you have something, and you know your friend doesn’t and you don’t want them to feel bad. It was the equivalent of shrugging when you have an expensive handbag and saying: “Oh, this old thing”. A few weeks later she extended an invitation to a small group of friends. I immediately wanted to go. I love the beach. I love swimming. I love the company of friends. I wasn’t going to be so superficial as to feel bad, because she had a holiday home and I didn’t. I was going to grow a pair. This would be fun! But late at night, the mean, hateful inner critic that lives inside whispered: “Why don’t you have a holiday home?” I tried to explain to this inner critic about how I had worked incredibly hard. I’d been made redundant. I’ve been in and out of jobs. I’d written books. I really gave it to him. “None of that matters,” he said as I clung to my pillow, adrift in my own midlife, sweaty, neuroses. The critic continued: “Your friend is six years younger, and she’s managed to do this thing. You’re too old. It’s not like you’re suddenly going to become a famous writer, is it?” I tossed and turned. The pillow felt drenched with angst. I had vertigo. I tried to focus on the swimming opportunities. I thought about declining the offer but why? I needed to get out of my own way! Human connection was good! It was healthy. The thing with holiday homes and being jealous of friends is that you immediately feel stupid. It’s massively privileged to have a home in the first place. It’s ridiculous to be envious of people who are wealthy enough to have more than one. It’s also not indicative of happiness. I know all the stats on what makes people happy – it’s connection, family, health, enough money to not worry and feeling safe. It’s not having a two-up, two-down in Cornwall with a sea view. So when I get envious, I do something quite toxic. I beat myself up about it. I tell myself that I’m being unreasonable. And when we do that, when we don’t acknowledge our feelings, well they come back for another session until you acknowledge them properly. Hence I’m writing this. I know that when I visit, I will have to talk to myself quite a lot, though. That the property will be gorgeous. That I will have to do a lot of praising of it. That I will grin when I do this. That I may need to sometimes retire to the bathroom and just breathe. That I will have to ignore my inner critic when I clamber into bed at night after one too many glasses of wine. That’s when the status anxiety is at its worst, you see. I will have to tune out any group conversations about how pricey holiday homes are, how difficult it is to Airbnb them, how it’s nice to keep them free for the summer but also the time when you can make the most money. And also remember that second homers often come in for a lot of flak and that much of that is justified (raising house prices, stopping local people being able to live in the places they grew up, changing things – not always for the better). I won’t talk about these topics. That will not go down well. I will instead head off to the beach and swim. And whilst I’m swimming, I will remember that I’m happy. That I am, in fact, lucky. Lucky not to have more than one home. Which I am.