A recent WSJ dispatch notes that Gen Z are overwhelmingly renting rather than buying—and with good reason. Home-for-sale inventories are dwindling, prices are soaring, and interest rates continue to bite. Gen Z don’t simply want a roof and four walls; they demand amenities, Instagram-ready design, and a “mini-universe” under one lease—and a leasing experience as frictionless as summoning an Uber. They prize mental health-friendly spaces, chase aesthetic approval online, and above all, dread loneliness—seeking buildings that double as social clubs. Their rents devour a hefty slice of their pay. Add a fear-driven risk aversion amid economic uncertainty, and you have a portrait of a generation stuck in symptom management.
As someone living in one of these Gen Z-centric apartment communities, my anecdotal and empirical observations suggest otherwise. Those symptomatic explanations are somewhat incidental to a deeper current. First, many twenty-somethings aren’t yet at the stage to settle down: they linger longer in self-discovery, shifting careers and relationships at will, cushioned—when necessary—by their parents in what might be called a “slow-life” trajectory. Second, above all, Gen Z refuse to be shackled. With remote and hybrid work, location has lost its grip; hustle culture feels toxic. They regard housing as a subscription, not a possession—why wrestle with mortgages, maintenance and realtor fees when they can rent, pack up at a moment’s notice and chase the next opportunity? In a nutshell, renting isn’t a fallback for Gen Z—it’s a deliberate creed of flexibility in a capricious world.
.jpg "'Die With Zero' by Bill Perkins (ISBN 0358099765)")
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The problem with modern consumer culture is that it makes people want things they don’t need. It encourages us to stay on the ‘