Young couples are staying together for the rent — I should know, I did

Times

3 days ago

You hear horror stories about it all the time. Married couples desperate to divorce but staying together 'for the kids'. They bicker every day, haven't had sex in ten years, but the cost of raising a family alone, or paying for a messy divorce, is an even more crippling fate. It's easy to assume such a dilemma might only fall on older generations yet new research has found that one in five young adults stay in an unhappy relationship to keep costs down.
In a poll of 3,000 people aged 18-40 (by the agency Opinium for the Lifetime Isa firm OneFamily), researchers found that young single people were less likely to have cash reserves to fall back on and save significantly less each month. With 21 per cent agreeing that they have stayed with a partner because they can't manage living costs alone, the chief executive of OneFamily, Jim Islam, said the findings prove there's a 'tax on being single'.
I have plenty of experience in the matter. Aged 28, with a job in the media and a salary of £29k, I moved in with my (now ex) boyfriend, let's call him Harry, after just one year together. At the time, I was spending 75 per cent of my income on rent and bills — to share a two-bedroom apartment with a friend in north London — and was only able to put £200 in savings each month. Harry and I had a great relationship; it was caring, fun and easy, but the knot in my stomach in the two months leading up to the move told me we weren't ready. If I'm honest, I silenced the growing fears by thinking of all the money I'd be able to save, plus the thrill of having disposable income for all the things I'd waved off as 'unjustifiable' for years: clothes, takeaways, weekends away.
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Within months, unfortunately, my nervous gut proved right — our relationship shifted. It was beyond the usual growing pains of living together. Harry became distant, prioritising two-day benders with friends over date nights. Soon, I found evidence he'd cheated — I was devastated. Our relationship had always been brutally honest; infidelity was the last thing I expected of him. When confronted, he denied it profusely, explaining away the evidence with little success. I knew I had to break up with him, but I also knew I couldn't.
It wasn't because I believed him — as much as I wanted to — or because I thought he would change. It was less emotional than that. Amid the gut-wrenching turmoil of the rug being pulled firmly out from under me, my brain went to pure pragmatism — assessing the financial fallout of splitting.
Could I move back in with my friend? No, she'd moved out of London. Could I afford to live alone? No, I wouldn't get approved to rent on my salary and my living costs would be extortionate. The alternative was to find a houseshare with strangers, something I hadn't done since a bad experience when I was 23. It would, undoubtedly, feel like I was going backwards. Could I really endure the untold obstacles that come with living with strangers?
I cautiously — and secretly — viewed some lower-priced studios (in London, that means £1,300 a month) and found that any I could afford weren't worth living in. Most were so small you could shower, cook and remove mould from the ceiling all at the same time.
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That left one other option: stay and compartmentalise the emotional distress of remaining with a man I now couldn't trust, and our impending break-up, until our lease expired. All things considered, that seemed like the easiest choice — sure, my mental health might go awry, but at least I wouldn't have to uproot my life or ruin my financial future.
Over the next seven months my emotions were like a British summer: sunny one second, thunder the next. We still behaved like a couple, eating dinner together every night, going on dates — we even spent my birthday in Dubai together. I was tortured by the shame of staying, yet somehow still in love, relishing the moments we were happy, knowing they would end soon. I had set myself a goal of doubling my salary — logic out of the window, along with my dignity — so that I would never be in this situation again. And actually, after some lucky openings at my company that led to two promotions in quick succession, I was almost there by the time our lease expired. We broke up a month prior to this, both in agreement that things weren't working. We'd long ignored the fact that some of our plans for the future didn't particularly align (he wanted kids, for example, I wasn't so sure) — and after that trust was fractured, our dynamic was never the same. I'd spent the past seven months checking out emotionally and it was clear to both of us that it was time to call it quits. I was free mentally, albeit now burdened by the cost of paying £1,600 rent alone (my salary might have risen, but my disposable income certainly didn't). I'd come to learn it was worth it, however.
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When I've shared this experience with friends, many have admitted that financial pressures have played into their decision to stay too. One knew her relationship wasn't working for a year before it ended, but had just started her own business and didn't have enough savings to feel comfortable managing bills alone. Another was made redundant and suddenly found herself reliant on her wealthy partner, living what she described as largely 'separate lives' for the rest of their relationship.
Experts now worry that the mental toll of the single tax is long-lasting. 'The emotional exhaustion of staying is rarely spoken about, and the cost-of-living crisis has only heightened these fears,' says psychotherapist and divorce coach Eve Stanway. 'Living too long with tension, conflict or emotional disconnection can chip away at self-esteem, feed anxiety and leave people feeling hopeless or trapped.'
After moving out of our shared flat, I spent six months in therapy — the emotional trauma I had compartmentalised finally caught up with me. I ended up with severe anxiety, my brain channelling the fear and stress I felt at being so out of control of my life into a phobia of being trapped (the irony isn't lost on me) in small spaces like the Tube, lifts or a plane. My sense of self took a hit too. I'd always prided myself on being strong enough to walk away from a bad relationship no matter the cost — evidently, just not the cost of rent in London.
Therapy certainly helped, as did the fact I'm now in a better place financially. I've taken it as a lesson in resilience and I will never let the allure of living more comfortably speed up the pace of a relationship I'm not sure about. As the saying goes, you can't put a price on freedom. The writer has chosen to remain anonymous