Up until my 19th birthday, I lived with my parents down on the South Coast. It was a small bungalow my dad had acquired in the 60s for less than £20,000, which he subsequently extended after he met my mum and their family grew. My two sisters and I shared the master bedroom – complete with bunk beds and band posters – while my brother, being the only boy, got a small box room all to himself, next to my parents’.

For me, childhood was a blur of play fights, role play and mischief. Yes, mealtimes were akin to modern warfare and yes, it was absolute chaos at times, but I had built-in best friends, and I never thought that would change.

So, when it did, and my siblings had all left home by the time I was 12, it was particularly unsettling. I had effectively become an only child overnight – and despite the obvious perk of having a room to myself for the very first time, I absolutely hated it. The silence was stifling.

As a result, in the years that followed, I tried to replicate some of that magic of having a larger family. I went from university halls – a kind of halfway house, which allowed me both the privacy of my own space and access to my friends whenever the mood struck – to sofa-surfing at their places in London until I could cobble together a deposit. I craved that connection and wanted to avoid being alone at all costs, even if that meant sacrificing my living standards as a result.

However, given that most of my university pals were coupled up or commuting from their parents’ houses on the outskirts of town, I soon found myself in a flatshare with two complete strangers.

Tucked away, above a central London Tube station, there were mice in the hallway and every so often you’d hear: “Lift number two will be the next lift.” I had to kit it out with a cheap Ikea bed and fairy lights to make it somewhat liveable. Still, it was the epitome of city living and my first proper taste of freedom.

After nearly two years of that set-up, I moved in with my boyfriend and his friends. We then got a flat, just the two of us, before I returned to flat-sharing when we broke up a few years later.

Having experienced a number of life changes in quick succession, including the passing of my father, I quit my job, packed everything into storage and travelled around the US for two months, before crashing in my sister’s spare room on my return.

It was then, after living out of a suitcase for many months, that I started re-evaluating things. In the space of five years, I had moved nearly as many times. And even when I liked the places I was living in or the people I was living with, it never quite felt right – it never felt like home, which, until that point, I had associated with being surrounded by other people.

Then, when I started looking for flats to rent in 2020, I had a renewed purpose and was looking at things through a different lens. No longer would I prioritise living with others; I would instead go it alone and find a place just for me. I needed to see what I was capable of and I needed room to figure out my next steps, away from the noise and distraction that other people had so far provided me.

At first, it was bumpy. About a week after I moved in, lockdown took effect and I, like the rest of the nation, was left stewing in the uncertainty of when or if I would be able to see loved ones again. I then had to navigate illness alone when I contracted a particularly nasty strain of Covid-19. All I wanted was for someone to come and take care of me.

But then something shifted. I made a conscious decision not to dwell on my aloneness – not to see it has a hindrance. Instead, I reframed it as an opportunity to push myself beyond my comfort zone and reconnect with myself in a way I hadn’t in so long.

No longer was the experience isolating, but freeing. There were no rows about cleaning or doing the washing up. I didn’t have to tread on eggshells because my flatmate or partner was in a foul mood. I didn’t have to apologise for taking up space in communal areas.

Next February, I will have been in my little south London sanctuary for seven years. In that time, I have furnished – and refurnished – the place. I have built all the furniture myself. I have fixed the leaky tap in the bathroom; hung pictures; hosted dinner parties and movie nights; and I have taken shelter from the outside world within these walls.

It is far from perfect, but it is mine. And although I am not against living with others again down the line, it is the best decision I have made – because it has brought me joy, safety and calm. I have become more resilient, self-sufficient and at peace with myself, and though I am the sole occupant, it is still bound in wonderful memories, and it is still full of love.

Too often, we are sold this idea that in order to create a home we must have a family – we must take out a mortgage, spend inordinate amounts on decking and BBQ pits and etch our kids’ heights into the timber of its foundations. But home doesn’t look like that for everyone.

To me, this place is home – a home that I have created by myself, for myself. And that means everything.