At the end of 2014, my husband and I sold every last pot and pan, every item of furniture we owned – we even sold my house. It was to fund a year-long trip abroad. Eight months later, I was compelled to return to Australia in difficult circumstances. My husband had sadly, and unexpectedly, passed away from a heart attack in Portugal. Evidently, there is never a good time for your husband to pass away, certainly not in a foreign country, but death struck him at perhaps the worst possible time for me.
We'd taken it for granted that when our finances dried up, we'd easily find employment and a place to live back home in the UK. However, this was not the case. We'd spent all our savings, I was out of work, and, quite crucially, I was on my own.
We are the fastest-growing demographic in Australia to fall into homelessness.
My family and I are homeless in Australia, caught in a relentless and unforgiving loop of seeking aid that's nowhere to be found, unfortunately | Stephanie Valla
Showing the struggles faced by older women in the UK who are trying to find secure housing. A lifetime of entrenched financial disadvantage (lower wages, lower pension amounts, smaller savings pots, fewer assets), as well as relationship breakdowns, mental health difficulties, domestic abuse and losing a partner, can all contribute to why women suddenly find themselves without a home of their own.
Nine years ago, these statistics applied to me. What ultimately saved me were friends and family.
For three months I stayed with friends: my son and his housemates were kind enough to take me in at one point, then I spent a bit of time in my mother-in-law's spare bedroom. Roughly six weeks of that time was spent at my brother's place with his family. With some help from travel insurance, they gave me a hand in relocating to a small country town where I eventually found a little cottage to rent and furnished it with borrowed items.
Family and friends who are dedicated to one's well-being can greatly contribute to older women avoiding decades-long homelessness.
Fortunately, my period of homelessness was brief. The mental harm it caused was more severe than the physical difficulties themselves. I never had to sleep rough, I never felt threatened, and I never went without heat. My family supported me while I got back on my feet. It was in that small country cottage that I had the time and space to grieve and recover, worrying about money, looking for work, washing my clothes by hand and writing a significant portion of a book. That particular place allowed me to regain my health, my dignity, and the mental space to be creative, as well as the opportunity to form new friendships and connections with others who could offer support.
‘Deaths of avoidable poverty and desperation’: homelessness report discloses rise in fatalities in Australia
Having one's own home, and indeed one's own room, is synonymous with freedom and a fundamental need for privacy. How can we truly be ourselves if we don't have the time, the liberty, and the space to spend some time on our own? In order to be, one requires a door that closes - a door that shields oneself from the challenges of the world. When I returned to Australia, I told anyone who inquired that Maslow was on the right lines. Human beings' most essential need is physiological, and it is indeed sufficient for a period. For a time, it is all that really matters.
I find that growing older is a humbling experience. The brilliant and terrible knowledge I've gained about myself and about human nature – health worries that gnaw at my pride, the looming spectre of mortality and all those dreadful mistakes I've made throughout a tumultuous lifetime – ageing has created a world more daunting but also made richer through my gratitude and growing acceptance. And being on my own (I wouldn't have it any other way) adds to life's complexity.
Writing this piece, nearly a decade after the fact, I could sob with joy for the everyday satisfaction I now derive from simply basking in the sunlight streaming through the window on a summer's day, unwinding on my sofa in front of subpar TV on an evening, or slumping onto my freshly laid bed on quiet Sunday mornings. My wish is that all older women discover such serenity in a house they can call their own.
