Sold! And I’m a bit sad.

The first house I ever lived in with my then boyfriend, now husband, has new owners. I’m thrilled for them but I’m surprisingly emotional seeing the sold sign out the front.

Funny how attached you can get to wonky floorboards.

Our little cottage sheltered us through some huge life moments and on the day we handed over the keys forever, I went for one last walk through as if I was trying to hold onto the memories of each room.

First dog, first child, first mortgage. That house gave us a place for celebrations and mistakes and memories. Bad homemade pizzas and curries from a jar that we eventually perfected as we learned to be grown ups.

We paid bills and called tradies. Fixed the hot water system and figured out how a possum was getting inside. There’s a rat story that will remain with me forever, but it’s too traumatising to share.

I remember moving in with basic furniture and a bunch of knives and forks from my grandparents. The crockery set we bought was cheap and chipped fairly quickly but we thought it was special.

I even vaguely recall when the third drawer in our kitchen wasn’t jam packed. Actually I now envy the accidental minimalism that comes from not owning too much stuff.

We set up a little home business in the front room where we’d sometimes let our dog in for an encouraging pat.  He was intrigued seeing his first computer screen and loved nothing more than getting in the yard to bark at mango trees and trains.

We got engaged, married and headed off on our honeymoon from that house. For a dozen years we attempted veggie gardens and minor renovations. My cousin poured the back slab.

My brother chainsawed the black bean tree when it got overgrown. My parents helped us buy the house in the first place and we’ll be forever grateful for their generosity.

I remember doing pregnancy tests and the tearful euphoria discovering that we’d become parents. I wonder how my sons will afford homes in another 10 or 20 years.

One of my work colleagues has just bought her first unit with her sister. Another has been house hunting every weekend and is about to go unconditional. Daunting but so exciting.

There are around 11 million homes in Australia according to the Australian Bureau of Statistics, yet that’s not enough dwellings to house 27 million people.

The housing crisis is playing out in full public view with tents in parks and kids in cars. Everyone deserves a home. Economists debate the best way forward but all agree that more public housing is required. Easing planning restrictions and tightening negative gearing concessions are practical ideas but not politically popular.

The average unit price in Queensland is $578,000 and the average house price is $735,000 according to the Real Estate Institute of Queensland. In Brisbane, the median house price is $1.16million. No wonder the word SOLD evokes such big emotions.

Next month I’ll host an event called Housing All Australians. It’s a business led movement to addressing the housing shortage. Their concern is that without rapid, radical change, Australia is on track to match homelessness rates in the US.

My grandparents grew up in Brisbane in the house next door to where my Grandfather was born. They couldn’t fathom the house prices of today. When they eventually moved out and into assisted living, a developer subdivided their block and built units. They called them “Levingston”.

So I guess their presence lives on in a different form. Whenever I drive past I get a wave of nostalgia, as I will when I pass our little cottage once the sold sign comes down and somebody else makes it their home.

There will always be a little piece of my family that remains in our first home. It’s a panel of blue stained glass next to the front door that originally came from my grandparent’s original house. I hope the new owners make memories there that they can tell their grandkids.