Home Is Cheaper, But Is It Easier?

Hey loves,

So as you may know, I’m a recent graduate who studied in the big, rich town of London...

Insert Power theme song

(I started this series in 2018 and still haven’t finished it lol).

Honestly, it was one of the best decisions I have ever made. London pushed me in ways Leeds never could. The city forced me to grow, adapt, and claim space in ways I didn’t know I needed.

Living there was thrilling, exhausting, and eye-opening all at once.

Uni was a whirlwind. I met people who challenged my ideas, made me question myself, and occasionally made me laugh until my ribs hurt. I learned how to manage friendships that were meaningful and ones that fizzled out, how to navigate the tricky politics of dating, and how to balance work, study, and social life without losing myself. Let me tell you it was a lot, not even SFE could save me; however, I've gained a different kind of financial independence.

Overall, it's an experience I'm truly grateful for, and I learned a lot.

So much so, it feels like a crime if my parents buy me something, as I'm so used to doing it myself.

I imagined my future clearly: a lawyer, a writer, living in a high-rise somewhere in Manhattan, filling it with books, art, and music, feeling accomplished, free, and in control of my life.

Then I moved back home.

Suddenly, all that independence feels a tad different. Home is cheaper, yes, but is it easier? Let's gist.

Living under the same roof as your family after tasting full autonomy feels like someone swapped your life with a slightly edited remix.

Don’t get it twisted, nothing is hostile, but everything has rules you forgot existed. Being the firstborn daughter in an African household makes this more layered. Responsibility lands heavily on your shoulders. You are expected to think ahead, care for younger siblings, and keep the household running smoothly, often without acknowledgement. At uni, I could sleep in until midday or eat cereal for three days in a row, and no one cared.

Back home, sleeping in feels like rebellion. (I still do it anyway).

Eating whatever I like feels selfish. Playing music too loudly suddenly has implications. Afrobeats dominates my playlists, but my mum complains I listen to too much Nigerian music and not enough Cameroonian music.

I cannot win. But that’s the thing, you can’t always please your African parents now, can you? (No, you can’t because whatever you do, they’ll always have something to say).

Cooking is another battlefield. My mum is incredible, but her style does not always match mine. If I cook for myself, it tends to be pasta or some kind of recipe I’ve seen on TikTok, and she sighs. My mum HATES my cooking, but she’s also the one who douses her food in palm oil, so it’s like ??????????

Sometimes I just want to scream, I survived London, I cooked my own food for three years, let me eat in peace.

Oh and I can’t order food anyhow now. If I order for myself, I must order for all… long, long day.

Anyways, my social life has transformed too.

Most of my friends are still in London; if not, they’re dotted around the country, finding their own rhythms. And while some uni friendships have drifted naturally, which is fine, it reminds me how much connections are tied to location and shared experience.

That truth hits harder when my feed is full of events, day parties, and random London opportunities to which I can no longer just roll up.

Sigh.

On top of that, transport adds another layer. In London, I could hop on a train or the Tube and be anywhere in minutes. In Leeds, buses are slow, inconsistent, and isolating, which means freedom isn’t just about money or time; it is shaped by mobility. And being home constantly reminds me of that.

On that note I need a car ASAP!

So...

Coming home feels strange initially, almost like holding a mirror to yourself. Suddenly, you’re forced to see who you are against the backdrop of the family that raised you. That reflection makes you notice the ways you’ve changed, the ways you’ve stayed the same, and the ways you still want to grow.

Independence teaches you freedom, choice, and self-reliance, but being back home reminds you of humility, patience, and reflection, I’d say. Autonomy, I’ve realised, is never just about doing whatever you want; it’s about negotiating your desires within a web of relationships, love, and shared history. In that sense, the walls of your childhood home don’t box you in; they frame you. They challenge you to bring together who you are now with where you’ve come from.

And honestly, living at home has its own quiet lessons. You learn to read moods without words, to respect the unspoken hierarchies of family life, and to juggle responsibilities you didn’t even realise were yours.

It’s not regression at all, it’s a different kind of education, one in emotional intelligence (I’m a big advocate for this!) and subtle diplomacy that no uni lecture could prepare you for.

On top of that, coming home makes you think about identity. I’ve considered mine frequently since being back.

Who are you when the world sees you as independent, ambitious, and grown, but your family still remembers the version of you who came home with bad grades at parents’ evening and got the maddest licks for it afterwards? I'm attempting to transition into something new and rebrand, you know those ones where you randomly decide to change your life at 3 am... yeah, that's been me lately.

Reconciling those perspectives is humbling. Independence isn’t only about physical space; it’s about how you position yourself mentally, emotionally, and socially in different spheres.

Living back home makes those spheres collide and forces you to reconcile the different versions of yourself…

With love and curiosity,

Just Jenni