The Valley, the Pit, and the Antidote

It goes without saying that buying a first home in the current cut-throat market, and after the year we’ve experienced, is an act of socially-accepted insanity. Recently, I heard a DIY blogger I follow describe something she calls “the valley of despair”—a phase of homeownership when renovations are incomplete, satisfaction feels distant, and expenses are mounting. I feel as though I’ve not only discovered this valley, but have made camp there for the last two months. 

Aside from the obvious anxiety that inherently accompanies plunking a large lobe of my savings on our down payment, I’ve been surrounded by hallmarks of said valley of despair at every turn of early homeownership. Our first month with the house was defined by two efforts: one, to rid the smell of the last owner and their pets from every corner of the space, and two, to find and hire contractors we trust to renovate + transform the space before our summer’s end move-in date. We accomplished the first (after many sexier attempts to de-funk, I’m sorry to report: there but for the grace of these things go I), but the second proved more difficult (a gentle way to say what it really was: ulcer-inducing). 

The unmistakable expressions of first time homebuyers, circa 1986 but actually 2021.

Back to the socially-accepted insanity for a second. There’s a few prongs to this species of first-time-homebuyer in 2021 insanity. First, low inventory on houses in the starter home price range met with otherworldly high demand has created an intense seller’s market and a frustrating experience for buyers. Pressured into making best and final offers, buyers are being told by their realtors to brace for bidding wars, prepare to offer up to $50k over asking price, and consider waiving essential components of the process—like inspection and appraisal—to position themselves as the best candidates. (In other words, insanity.)

Because so many people are buying homes—some without inspecting them!—or else just spent a year indoors reappraising their current home, the high demand for construction and contracting jobs is outpacing capacity. After a year of work stoppage and a pandemic-induced economic sag, contractors are eager to get jobs on the books even at the expense of overpromising and overextending. For my husband and I, this translated to getting ghosted by our first contractor, and having a second deal broken due to lack of personnel on the day we were to hand over a deposit. 

We panicked, yes, but we also got scrappy and took on the roles of general contractors ourselves—identifying, vetting, and hiring separate teams to tackle the bathrooms, the floors, and the larger-scale construction work (knocking out load bearing walls, building new walls and built-in shelving, and a bunch of remaining miscellany around the house). We adopted our own DIY projects: refinishing our kitchen cabinets for me, and tearing up every inch of outdated flooring and plumbing for him. Our second month of homeownership was focused around these projects we had control over, which buoyed and empowered my husband, but kept me firmly planted in the valley of despair. Decor is my strong suit; demo is not. Most days, the more time I spent in the dusty, crumbling work-in-progress house, the harder it became for me to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I was proud of the vision we had conjured, but I was disappointed that I hadn’t transcended the intervening stress + budget crunching + literal messiness. 

Luckily for me, the DIY blogger didn’t just coin the term “the valley of despair”—she proposed an antidote to it. She has a tradition: every time she renovates a house gets to the part where something inevitably goes awry and gets tearful, she orders takeout and watches The Money Pit with her husband. I love a call to action, so I followed the blogger’s lead and insisted we watch over my favorite takeout (an ancestral Jersey shore pizza and salad with extra dressing from Federici’s). The Money Pit is a 1986 screwball comedy starring Tom Hanks and Shelley Long as first time homebuyers who purchase a too-good-to-be-true mansion and watch in horror as it literally crumbles around them. They’re joined on the property by a wacky team of contractors who insist at different points throughout the year that all the work will be done “in two weeks.” The phrase “money pit” didn’t originate with the film, but the title brought the phrase into common lexicon in the 1980s and beyond. (This tracks; I find that whenever I tell anyone older than 35 we bought a house, they immediately invoke the phrase.)

Tom Hanks taking the nightmare staircase for a ride.

Watching the movie did not wave a magic wand over my life and heal the wound of my stress, but I admit there was something cathartic about watching the mishaps and subsequent renovations unfold, and the reveal of the final product—albeit, a fictional one. I’ve started to see the light at the end of the tunnel now as our DIY efforts wind down and the subcontractors start to come in for the main event. Every time we return to the house, something is different. Drywall comes down and reveals how the new light passes from one room to the next. Electricity is rerouted through new avenues. A matte black bathroom fixture replaces one from sixty years ago. Even the small is significant. When unforeseen expenses arise, I try hard to anticipate the memories that will be made in the space, the life that will be lived there, instead of the uptick of invoices. I try to convince myself the money going into the pit is not money that will be missed.

Portrait of a baby in her new bathtub amidst a construction site.

We’ve already had our first big setback: materials meant for a wall in the bathroom were damaged in transit, leaving it to remain unfinished until the replacement is shipped. In moments like this, I’m committed to getting out of the valley of despair with grace. Taking a breath. Reminding myself minor detours are to be expected. Believing—in earnest—things will probably work out. Laughing when, after we ask the project manager how long it’ll be until the new material arrives + the job gets completed, she promises—as always—two weeks.