‘I was brought to tears by the overwhelming chaos’: My home renovation came at a cost

I have recently endured a living hell, an experience that left me vulnerable, exposed and anchorless. You see, for the past few months, I’d been woken each day before sunrise by a group of men (all wonderful, it must be noted) entering my private sanctuary and, well, knocking it to smithereens. Sledgehammers, chainsaws and drills became the soundtrack of my life as the renovation I thought would take weeks tipped into months. Filth and debris became my constant companions and privacy a wistful dream.

There were times I was brought to tears by the overwhelming chaos, times when I couldn’t breathe through the dust or walk a clear path to anywhere. I had workmen eating their lunch on my bed, and my bathroom played host to a conga line of strangers. I had no floors at one stage. No walls at another. I went without electricity for days and without water for weeks. And when it was running, I was confined to one tap, forcing me to wash dishes in my bathtub for months. My plumber would joke that he could tell what I’d had for dinner by looking at the basin trap the next day.

But it was the fine layer of dust I dubbed the “spirit breaker” that really did me in. It was everywhere – on every surface and in every pore. It got up my nose, in my ears, under my nails. It rendered my plants grey and my ceiling lights opaque. To this day, just the thought of that grim grime makes me shudder and sneeze.

Now, anyone who has lived through a renovation is probably recoiling at this memory in empathetic horror. To those who have survived, I salute you. But for me, the experience had an extra layer of torment, an emotional toll that exceeded the material cost. And while some of this existential angst was caused by my budget being blown within weeks (tip to those contemplating a reno: add a third to your budget), the real cause was that my home is not a mere shelter or investment, it is a metaphor of me.

It is a mirror of my mood, my tastes, my energy, my passions. It is my sanctuary, a respite from social responsibility, a place to lick my emotional wounds and restore my faith. If my surroundings aren’t right, neither am I. Without my cave, I am a bear that can’t hibernate, a turtle without its shell. To not have a door to shut out the world and just be me is agony.

If my surroundings aren’t right, neither am I. Without my cave, I am a bear that can’t hibernate, a turtle without its shell.

WENDY SQUIRES

I learnt how much being in a bad space affects every part of me during Melbourne’s COVID-19 lockdowns. I was living in a place I knew wasn’t the home of my dreams, just an investment stepping stone along the way. But for all those lonely, seemingly endless months I paced around it like a cranky caged tiger. There was no sunlight to savour, no view of the outside world to counter how small my own had become. The energy was stifled, all funk and no feng. I was suffocating.

I knew that as soon as the restrictions lifted, I’d break out and find somewhere I could feel free and more, well, me. It wasn’t long until I stumbled onto my forever home, a modest vintage apartment with boundless views of Port Phillip Bay and beyond. My true happy place. But she was an old girl in need of a makeover, so I decided to give her the glow-up she deserved.

Even before I started, I knew renovating would be an ordeal, and it certainly was. But damn, it was worth the chaos. Today, as I look around my apartment, I realise that every cent spent renovating has been an investment in me and my future. The memory of the pain is fading like dusk (or should that be dust?), allowing me to look clearly at what I’ve achieved and the potential I’ve unlocked.