We had to pull $20,000 from our retirement fund to stay afloat. It felt risky, but it was the only way.

• My family faced years of financial instability and unpredictable income streams.
• We relied on Airbnb income, credit cards, and even retirement savings to get by.
• Despite everything, we found a way to buy a home we loved and make it work.

"It's got good bones," the seller said, as if he had to sell it to me.

He didn't. We both knew I was already in love with the house.

For some, a kitchen that hasn't been touched since 1948 would be a total gut renovation, but I'm enamored by the pale green cabinetry, original wallpaper still intact, and hardwood floors that need little more than a good waxing. The seller and I stood in the living room while my husband refereed the kids' fight over bedrooms, and I pictured mornings with coffee on the sunporch. It's a forever home material, and we can almost afford it.

Almost.

When the seller accepted my verbal offer, my heart leaped into my throat. I looked him in the eye and said, with complete confidence, "We'll make it happen."

The truth was, I had absolutely no idea how we'd pay for it.

From the outside, our life probably looked stable enough — and at the start, it was

Early in our marriage, my husband had a stable career making six figures, with benefits and health insurance. His income gave me the freedom to build a life as a freelance writer and writing coach. A generous gift from his father helped us buy our first home.

Then, almost at the same time I sold a book, my husband was let go from his job, and our roles reversed overnight. He picked up consulting projects when they came along, but for the most part, we survived on my earnings. Some months worked beautifully. Others, we waited anxiously for invoices to clear while maxing out credit cards on groceries and gas.

Years of financial insecurity have been taxing on our marriage

Financial insecurity chips away at the image I have of us: educated adults who know how to pay bills, file taxes, and make responsible choices. When the numbers stop working, I'm thrust back into childhood — years of food scarcity and housing instability, living in my grandmother's basement, dreaming of a real home that never materialized.

About a year ago, we made a move that seemed, at least temporarily, like a solution. We relocated to Nyack to be closer to my son's private school. Instead of selling our family home, we turned it into an Airbnb. It was a surprisingly good financial decision. Over the course of the year, we earned about $50,000 — enough to cover our bills and keep everything moving forward.

Sometimes life throws a curveball

Living in temporary housing took a toll on us, and Airbnb income was unpredictable. This past winter, bookings were slow. Once again, our credit cards were approaching their limits. We decided to sell our family home and downsize.

Around this same time, our town began cracking down on short-term rentals, shutting down the business that had kept us afloat. That's when we dipped into our retirement account. We pulled $20,000 from our IRA — something we had somehow managed to avoid until then.

We used the money to pay off the credit cards and catch up on the mortgage.

Borrowing from our retirement felt both terrifying and inevitable

My biggest fear is letting our children down and putting them through what I experienced as a kid. When financial troubles arise, a quiet panic creeps in. A voice whispers, you're not doing life right. You're supposed to be more stable by now. Retirement savings are supposed to be sacred. The adult thing to do is leave them alone and let them grow.

But the adult thing is also keeping oneself and one's children housed and fed.

Having an IRA to draw from feels both humbling and miraculous. Like the second financial gift from my father-in-law, or the winter I was awarded a generous grant for writers with medical expenses, it reminds me that survival is always a mix of luck, strategy, and stubborn work.

I thought stability meant not needing help

I didn't doubt our house would sell quickly. But even with that equity, the best we could afford in Nyack was at the bottom of the market. Our sublet was up June 1, and we didn't have money to throw away on another rental. We were searching for the cheapest house in a competitive town, on a tight timeline. Sitting down with a real estate agent, going over our numbers, I realized the math wasn't mathing. Fighting back tears, I said, "I feel like my luck has run out."

The real estate agent listened quietly and said something simple: "I don't think luck runs out."

I decided to believe her.

Then this house appeared.

For years, I thought stability meant never needing help, never touching retirement, never falling behind. But that's not how most lives work. Stability, it turns out, is patched together from whatever holds: a gift from a parent, a well-paying freelance assignment, a house that "has good bones," a sentimental seller more interested in finding someone to love it than taking the highest offer.

By the grace of something—timing, stubbornness, creative accounting—we managed to qualify for a mortgage. Our neighbors generously offered us a bridge loan to use as the deposit. When the seller wouldn't accept an offer contingent on the sale of our house, our IRA came to the rescue: in real estate, an IRA or 401(k) counts as "liquid assets" if you're willing to liquidate them, and so we were able to use those funds toward the down payment.

By the time you read this, I hope to be in contract. But if this house doesn't work out, something else will. I don't know how, but we always find a way.