Ownership, happiness and how we measure value

“Why continue to pour money down the rent drain when you could buy a house?” I feel a jolt of excitement when I get asked this question. And not because I am about to unroll some hidden economic truth. Don’t come to me for financial advice, you’ll probably end up really poor. Besides, the internet is a bottomless pit of “renting versus buying” videos. 

My issue is with the unit of measurement: money. Why is it that we convince ourselves that when something makes sense economically, all else should follow? Why do we reduce the complexity of our well-being to a single dimension?

I’ve seen friends and family buy houses only to be engulfed in the flames of delayed construction work, unexpected expenses and unpleasant neighbors they are now stuck with. That takes a toll on you psychologically. And sure, that might be temporary but that is still a cost. One I’ve never seen included on a spreadsheet. 

There’s something insidious about material investments. On the surface they appear like a no-nonsense way of building equity, shielded from the capriciousness of the market. But there’s a hidden cost, one that no measure can capture. Every time you purchase something, you tie your mental health to the decaying nature of a physical object. The larger the object, the more significant the consequences of its decay on your sanity. 

Let’s take an alarm clock for example, it might break after a while but I’m not going to feel anguish and pain about it. But let’s say that I bought a house and it turns out the pipes are completely rotten and require gut renovation. That’s months of noisy construction work and a daily disruption of your privacy. Or let’s say the seller accidentally forgot to mention that sewage smell that’s particularly acute in the summer. That will drill a hole in your morale like that hyperactive mole who’s having a go at your brand new garden. 

Bertrand Russel says “It is the preoccupation with possessions more than anything else, that prevents us from living freely and nobly”. There’s a constant war raging in our heads. The things we own are leading the assault, seeking to conquer every bit of mind space they can plant their flag in. 

The reverse is also true. Renting provides freedom that is hard to account for in monetary terms. The freedom to move around easily, the freedom to live in places where you would never be able to afford a home (I’m looking at you Big City addicts), the freedom to focus on the immaterial aspects of life. Every morning, I wake up and I soak in the view from the window of our Brooklyn apartment. I let my thoughts be carried away by the tiny boats gliding in the distance of New York’s Upper Bay. I don’t own this apartment, I would never be able to afford it but I do own this view. I own the first rays of sun that hit the kitchen countertop with their orange glow. That’s soul capital right there. I’m not sure what to call it, I can’t count it, I can’t measure it, I can only tell you it cultivates my optimism, my joy and sense of presence on a daily basis. 

And who knows, I might end up buying a home one day. But in the meantime, while I may not be making the smartest use of my money, I’m investing in a different type of capital. I’ll never be able to show you the return on investment. But as the fox says to the Little Prince, “What is essential is invisible to the eye”.