22. Independence Is Overrated: Multi-Gen Living
I was sitting at my laptop, staring at a Google Doc full of numbers. Average income from contract work. Realistic coaching revenue while keeping things sustainable for my AuDHD brain. Current rent prices. Mortgage estimates. Utilities. Food.
The numbers were right there on the screen. And my heart just sank.
This wasn't just math. This was a decade of financial roller coasters as a business owner. Years of "you should be making this much, then double it, then scale" that had landed me in burnout. My nervous system was done. The thought of working like that just to afford living alone felt completely impossible.
Then my partner said something wild: "What if we just bought a house with your parents?"
What if living with your parents as an adult isn't failure to launch? What if—for AuDHD nervous systems recovering from burnout—it's actually ecosystem design that creates breathing room to rebuild a sustainable life?
In This Episode:
The stigma around adult children living with parents is recent (2-3 generations) and culturally specific to white North American assimilation
Intergenerational living can provide both connection AND autonomy when designed intentionally
Financial breathing room from shared housing can enable AuDHD adults to build sustainable work instead of grinding just to afford rent
NextGen homes (houses with built-in separate living spaces) solve many of the overwhelm issues of traditional shared housing
This isn't regression—it's taking ancestral wisdom about pooled resources and designing it for modern nervous systems
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THE IMPOSSIBILITY MOMENT
After coming out of AuDHD burnout, I was trying to figure out how to earn enough to live independently without pushing my nervous system past what it could sustain again.
The math didn't work.
I needed financial breathing room to find my way back to work that actually fit my brain. To build something sustainable instead of grinding just to pay rent. But I had no idea how.
The Door That Appeared
When my partner suggested buying a house together with my parents, it felt like a pipe dream. Exciting but terrifying.
This wasn't our first experiment with intergenerational living. In 2020, when our landlord sold our condo and my partner lost his job in early pandemic, we moved into my parents' house temporarily. We used both spare bedrooms upstairs—one as our bedroom, one as a makeshift living room. Our own corner suite.
Parts of it were really good. My partner and I genuinely enjoy hanging out with my parents—we're friends in a way. We like going out together, laughing, watching movies.
But parts were HARD.
Sharing a kitchen. No noise separation—we could hear everything. My sister's kids there three days a week. Both my husband and I have highly sensitive sensory systems to noise, clutter, chaos.
It was overwhelming. Something needed to shift.
FINDING THE RIGHT DESIGN
We started dreaming: What if we had our own kitchen? Our own door to the outside? Actual noise separation so we could come and go without constant social coordination?
What if we could have connection WITHOUT constant overwhelm?
The NextGen Solution
Finding a house that works for intergenerational living in Las Vegas? Nearly impossible. We looked at everything on the market. Maybe found one property that could work, but it wouldn't make my mom happy.
Then we discovered "NextGen" homes—a design where roughly 900 square feet of a 3,600 square foot house is essentially a separate apartment. Own bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room. Doors to front and backyard. Connected to the main house by a single door.
It was perfect. Except it meant buying new construction and waiting a full year—six months for the lot, six months for building.
The Weight of Last Home
One of my biggest hesitations: this was my parents' LAST home.
They're in their seventies. The whole point was creating a place where they could age in place. Where they could have in-home care eventually instead of going to a nursing home.
We couldn't just walk away if it didn't work out.
We were putting all our resources into this—our shot at homeownership in a post-pandemic market—into THIS. No do-overs.
We talked to my parents' financial adviser about worst-case scenarios. If something happened and we had to move out, would their retirement still be okay? It would shift things slightly, but they'd be fine.
That gave me permission to actually commit. This wasn't a trap. It was a choice we were all making with eyes open.
The Pull of Time
There was something else pulling me toward this decision.
For a couple of summers, we'd been in Oregon. Away from family. And every time I came back to visit, I SAW it. How my parents had aged. How they moved a little slower.
I didn't want to have to fly my mom in to see her. I didn't want to miss things. I didn't want to look back and wish I'd had more time.
This isn't just about financial breathing room or making housing math work. It's about being HERE. Being present. Not missing the years I still have with them.
WHAT WORKS (AND WHAT DOESN'T)
What We Lost: The Evening Rhythm
When my husband and I lived in our own place, we had a beautiful evening ritual: walk together, make dinner, watch Great British Baking Show while eating, wash dishes, watch our current detective show. My nervous system LOVED that predictable rhythm.
Now? It's looser. More open-ended. We still walk, but dinner is more figuring-it-out-on-the-fly. Sometimes it's the three of us (my mom, my partner, me). Sometimes we meander in separate directions after.
It requires more executive function. More figuring things out in the moment.
We've started claiming "date nights"—Monday and Saturday, where we eat on our own side and have our old rhythm back. I think we need more of those. We're still iterating.
We're also moving the connecting door to create a vestibule—a buffer zone where you have to CHOOSE to go next door rather than just drifting over.
Why This Version Works
Having our own kitchen means: I can wake up and make tea without seeing anyone. No morning small talk when my nervous system isn't online yet.
Having our own front door means: We can leave for walks without announcing it. No social coordination load.
It's the difference between forced togetherness and CHOSEN connection.
We can participate when we have capacity. Retreat when we don't. That's what makes it sustainable.
What We Gained: Adult Friend Energy
My husband and I are into craft beer and mead. Sometimes he'll pour it into four sample glasses and we'll sit around with my parents, tasting together. Talking about flavors. Sipping slowly. Everyone gets looser. There's laughter.
Or we'll go to the local meadery together, bring in Mediterranean food, try new releases. My mom gets mulled mead in winter—hot, spiced—and enjoys it.
It's ADULT friend energy. Not parent-child. Not obligations. Just four people who genuinely like each other.
When my partner is gone, I'm not lonely. I have built-in company with people I actually want to be around.
And when I need space? I have my own door. My own little side yard. A cave to disappear into.
What We Gained: The Nephew Connection
My sister and her family come over at least two nights a week. My mom watches my two-year-old nephew two days a week.
I have an incredible relationship with my nephews that I wouldn't have if we lived separately.
On Christmas Eve, they stayed over. Christmas morning, we baked frozen croissants, opened presents together. The night before, we watched Muppet Christmas Carol on the couch. When my two-year-old nephew got scared during a scene, he reached over and held my hand.
My six-year-old nephew comes and asks: "Can we have auntie time now?" Lately it's been playing puzzle games on my Nintendo Switch together—soft, side-by-side engagement that feels so much less masking than direct play.
He's never known me NOT being this present. I've watched them grow through every stage. I know them deeply.
What We Gained: Shared Load
Executive function—the invisible labor of running a household—is HARD for AuDHD brains. Decision fatigue. Task initiation. Remembering the thing, doing the thing, doing all the sub-things.
Living like this? We can distribute that load.
My mom naturally became the dinner coordinator when we eat together—she likes getting out of the house, so she picks something up. Takes the "what's for dinner?" decision off our plates.
My partner troubleshoots tech issues. Fixes things that break. That's his zone.
I manage the landscape—plants, trees, catching problems early. My special interest, so it doesn't drain me.
It's not just money savings. It's reduced executive function load.
Joint toilet paper stash. One set of yard tools. Shared Wi-Fi. I don't have to remember to buy something because there's a backup next door.
And I get MORE relationship with my sister now. She's raising two little kids, doesn't have capacity for long phone calls. But when she's over for dinner multiple times a week? There are moments between things where we can pull away for sister chat. Talk about deep emotional things. Be sisters.
THE CHALLENGES
There are four neurodivergent adults in this house. Me, my partner, both my parents. Different needs, different processes.
My partner and I are more detail-oriented. We like things completed, organized. We track projects.
We've naturally fallen into project manager roles with house stuff.
Like our deck project—building composite around a swim spa, which is NOT normal in Las Vegas. Finding contractors was hard. We've ended up managing it. Catching mistakes. Coordinating.
When we were gone for a month in our camper van, we didn't feel comfortable having work done without us there.
We're still figuring out how to give ownership back. How to not be the bosses of everything.
My partner and I also have our own neurodiverse dynamic to navigate. He approaches decisions logically, linearly. Saw this arrangement as a practical solution. It's not as personal for him—these aren't his parents.
Me? I'm more spiraly. More process-oriented. I have to SEE it and FEEL it to know if something works.
We're still learning how we work together in this context.
WHAT THIS YEAR CREATED
It's been a year now—as of early January 2025—since we moved into this house.
2024 was a holding pattern year. We'd decided on the house in January 2024, then had to WAIT. Six months for the lot. Six months for building. I was already pulling out of burnout, starting to structure things better. But my big plan wasn't in place yet.
Then 2025 happened. The first year in the house.
We don't have all the projects done. I still don't have my private office. Things are incomplete. But we had the BONES. And something shifted.
I started making steel cut oats every morning. Ground flaxseed and walnuts. A grounding ritual my body does really well on.
I started Pilates. Regular movement. Being in my body again.
I went to the gynecologist for the first time in five years. Got my first mammogram. Executive function tasks that had felt too hard for years.
I went from six indoor plants to thirty. That special interest thriving again.
I'm building a native plant habitat in our yard. A wildlife garden. I haven't had LAND in a long time. Watching my own trees grow from saplings. Trees I tend. Where I notice on my morning walk something's wrong and adjust.
I launched this podcast.
And I had the spaciousness to let it evolve into what it wanted to be. To experiment. To weave the ancestral thread into my work. To not worry about losing people when I decided to get witchy alongside the practical.
I wasn't worried about every single client determining my livelihood. I had breathing room.
I brought back my special interests big time. Plants. Local ecology. Reconnecting with the native plant community here.
When I look at how I feel NOW versus the beginning of last year? Night and day.
This has been the year of REBUILDING. Finally having the raw ingredients. The bones. The foundation. To create the ecosystem. To fully come back to life.
None of this would exist without the breathing room this arrangement gave me.
If I'd been burned out, working full-time just to afford rent, scrambling to hit income goals? I wouldn't have had the SPACE in my brain to create this podcast. To map episodes. To batch record. To dream into what music I want and how I want people to feel.
THE CULTURAL LENS
If I look back at my family history, there WAS intergenerational living. My great-grandfather lived upstairs with my grandmother's family for years when my mom was growing up.
But that feels different. He was a widower. A single man who needed care. That's acceptable, right? He took care of them when they were young, so now they care for him.
But ME living with MY parents? As a married adult? That feels like it needs justification.
The Recent Shift
I think that stigma is specifically about white North American assimilation culture—and how many generations removed you are from immigration.
My family came to Canada in the early 1900s. By the time I was born, we were third generation. Fully assimilated into this narrative that "making it" means separation. Own place. Independence.
But many immigrant families—first, second generation—still hold traditions where intergenerational living is just normal. How you care for each other across generations.
Somewhere between my great-grandfather's generation and mine, the story shifted completely.
In Eastern European shtetls and villages in the 1800s—where my ancestors came from—multi-generational living wasn't a choice. It was how you SURVIVED. Extended families in tight quarters. Pooled resources. Everyone contributing.
When families immigrated to Canada in the early 1900s, they probably brought that pattern initially. Tenement housing. Crowded apartments.
Over time, as families moved up economically, the GOAL became separation. Own apartment. Own house. THAT was success. Proof you'd assimilated into North American individualism.
By the 1950s and 60s, multi-generational living had become stigmatized. Sign of poverty. Sign of dependence.
That narrative is still strong. And it's only been a couple of generations.
The Reframe: Ecosystem Design
This isn't dependence. It's not regression. It's not failure to launch.
It's ecosystem design.
Financial breathing room meant I didn't have to immediately ramp up to full client capacity. I could pace myself. I could experiment. I could let my coaching business regrow post-burnout organically instead of forcing it.
I'm not doing what my ancestors did—surviving in one room with no privacy.
I'm taking the WISDOM of that ancestral pattern—pooled resources, chosen proximity, intergenerational support—and designing it for modern nervous systems.
Connection AND autonomy. That's the evolution.
This is what it means to be a village edge-dweller in 2026. I opted OUT of the "successful adult lives alone" narrative. I designed something unconventional that lets me build work serving my community better than I could if I was grinding just to pay rent.
THE KEY INSIGHT
If you're in that impossible place right now—where the math doesn't work, where you can't see how to design a life that fits your nervous system AND pays the bills—hear this:
Where you are now is not where you'll always be.
The ways you have in front of you might not work. That's real.
But that doesn't mean NO way works.
There are creative solutions. Options you haven't considered yet. Options you've dismissed because they feel stigmatized or shameful or like they'd mean you failed.
Living with my parents felt like all of those things at first.
Now? It's the foundation making everything else possible.