It's happened.

Somewhere deep inside me, a switch has flicked.

I feel different; changed somehow.

I never thought it would happen to me.

And, diary, I'm embarrassed by this new feeling. But I'm ready to confess.

First, a little background. As you know, I've been writing about the economy and the property market for well over a decade now.

I've interviewed property spruikers and property naysayers alike. I've always been acutely conscious I draw a salary from a business whose revenues are quite reliant on a buoyant property market.

So, perhaps from some deep contrarian journalistic impulse, I have always felt compelled to reject the Australian obsession with home ownership and point out the virtues of renting, such as the freedom from crippling debt and the flexibility to move.

But, dear diary, that greatest of Australian dreams has finally come to visit me in my slumber.

So here it is, an embarrassing confession from a long-time advocate of renting: I want to own a home.

Like Darryl Kerrigan in The Castle, I want to plant my flag in the ground and lay claim to a tiny piece of this great land of ours.

No doubt, this is a stage-of-life thing. As a 36-year-old mother, it's getting harder to maintain the pretence of a footloose, fancy-free young thing.

Proximity to parks and good schools are now my overriding concerns, pubs and nightclubs a distant memory from a time before the rhythms of nappies, day-care drop-offs and play dates ruled my life.

Having spent most of the past two decades in the rental market, fuelling rapid growth in the share price of whichever company manufactures those removable 3M hooks to hang pictures, I'm done.

I'm ready to hammer - nay, drill (do I dare to dream?) - fixtures into my walls.

After I inevitably aim too high, or low, I'm ready to launch weekend excursions to Bunnings to buy Spakfilla??? and whatever you call those flat, spade-y things you use to even it out.

And paint. I want to lose myself in a paint-fume-fuelled reverie debating the merits of Seashell White versus Napkin White.

I want to do an absolutely awful job, and inadvertently cover my floor in paint splatter.

Because it won't matter; they'll be my walls, in my living room, in my home.

Dear diary, I'm ready to grow roots.

It's not been all bad renting. I've had a good ride. I've never been kicked out of a home. Landlords and real estate agents have been diligent and pleasant, for the most part, to deal with.

I've never had to call a plumber myself. Just a call to an agent, and any maintenance problems I've had - toilets that don't flush, leaky sink taps - have been relatively quickly resolved. I've not suffered the frustration of the one in five renters surveyed by Choice who said they'd had to wait more than a week for a response.

And I've certainly enjoyed the more liberating aspects of renting. I've lived free from the stresses of crippling debt, enjoyed multiple overseas holidays and lived in desirable inner-city areas where I could never have afforded to buy.

I stood aloof in the mid 2000s as near double-digit interest rates squeezed the mortgage slaves.

But it's true, I've also missed out on the approximate doubling in house prices since mortgage rates have dropped to record lows.

And, dear diary, I'm not even entirely convinced buying is the right financial decision now.

Rapid price growth has cooled. It's highly unlikely buyers today will enjoy the gains of the past decade. Perhaps I'll be better off planting my money in the sharemarket. I'll certainly be doing my sums.

And anyway, it's all a bit academic just now. Chances are, it will be years of slavish saving before I can afford a home I want.

Clearing the deposit hurdle will require some work yet. I'll need to do all the things I've been recommending for years, like shopping around on your electricity bill and insurance, keeping a spending diary and cooking modest meals at home.

Because the truth is: I've consumed my fair share of smashed avocados.

So here it is, resolution No.1: no more eating smashed avocados in cafes. That's it. I'm done. Any consumption of that delicious fruit will occur in the privacy of my own home, free from the view and judgment of smug, home-owning Baby Boomers.

So, there you have it, dear diary. You know my heart's deepest desire. How embarrassing if anyone should read these secret-laden pages!

Aside from the miserable fact that it's never been harder for young Australians to get a foothold in our frenzied property market than today, I feel much better.

I'll keep you posted.

Jessica Irvine is a Fairfax Media columnist.

Follow her on twitter @Jess_Irvine or facebook @jessicairvineeconomics