Across Europe, people in their 20s and 30s are running into the same wall. Rents are rising faster than wages, energy and food are more expensive, and buying a home without family wealth feels like a fairytale. Many young adults are moving back in with parents, or paying a huge share of their income to live alone in small studios.
People often talk about the housing crisis, the climate crisis and the loneliness epidemic as if they were separate problems. My research suggests they are closely connected – and that sharing a home could alleviate all three.
In my recent research, I interviewed 23 adults living alone in Denmark, and spent time in nine shared households with six or more adults. Forty-six per cent of Danish households consist of a single occupant, placing Denmark among the global leaders in this trend. I wanted to understand how people ended up in these arrangements, and how they really felt about them.
No one’s 20s and 30s look the same. You might be saving for a mortgage or just struggling to pay rent. You could be swiping dating apps, or trying to understand childcare. No matter your current challenges, our Quarter Life series has articles to share in the group chat, or just to remind you that you’re not alone.
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Most of the people living alone had not set out to do so. They ended up living solo after a breakup, a job move or their children leaving home. When I asked if they had chosen solo living as a lifestyle, the most common answer was a shrug: “It just turned out like this.” Many said they would consider sharing again if the right situation came along, but so far the opportunity hadn’t arisen.
Underneath this is a powerful social script. For many people, sharing a flat is seen as something you do at university or in your early 20s. At some point, you are expected to grow out of it and either live with a romantic partner or get a place on your own. Anything else can feel like a stepping stone on the way to becoming a proper adult.
This expectation developed most strongly in high-income countries such as Denmark, where welfare systems, housing markets and cultural ideals of independence have made living alone both possible and socially normal. There is evidence of household sizes shrinking all over the world, so the message is widespread. But it is expensive, isolating and bad for the environment.
Per person, solo households use more energy and resources than larger households, because each individual needs their own heated rooms, fridge, washing machine and so on.
Solos also spend a higher share of their income on housing. In my interviews, more than half of those living alone talked about feeling lonely, without me asking about it directly. They were paying top price for a lifestyle they hadn’t consciously chosen.
What shared living actually looks like
The co-living households were different. These were adults in their 30s, 40s, 50s and even one for retirees who consciously chose to share space, costs and everyday life.
One household I visited had a big, shared kitchen where everyone ate together several nights a week, plus smaller private spaces where people could retreat. Bills were split, shopping was done in bulk, and people took turns cooking. In another, a group of friends had bought an old farmhouse together and converted it into several small flats with shared outdoor areas and tools. They joked that they had “outsourced loneliness” – there was nearly always someone around for a chat or a walk, but no one was forced into constant togetherness.
There were disagreements about cleaning, noise and parenting styles, and arguments about who had let the kids eat cornflakes just before dinner. But there was also a feeling of being in it together: if someone lost a job, had a baby or broke a leg, there were others around to help out. Conflict and social capital are two sides of the sharing coin.
These cohabitants ignored the script that says you must stop sharing in your late 20s. They often reported being more satisfied with their everyday lives than those of a similar age who were living solo, many of whom were still waiting to meet “the one” before they could imagine a stable home life.
The housing and cost-of-living crises are not just about numbers, they are about what feels socially acceptable. Right now, many people would rather stretch their budget to the limit for a studio flat than consider moving in together.
Of course, there are structural barriers. Many rental rules and mortgage products still assume either a nuclear family or a single tenant. Landlords may be wary of multiple names on a lease. But there are a myriad of alternative arrangements that are perfectly legal in many jurisdictions, yet rarely considered, because they don’t fit the narrative of how adults are supposed to live.
In the context of housing crises across Europe, shrinking household sizes mean even more dwellings are needed to house the same population. Many people living alone have spare rooms or underused space, and underoccupancy is a significant contributor to housing shortages.
In my research, I keep coming back to the same conclusion: to solve systemic problems like climate change, high energy prices or unaffordable housing, we need shared infrastructure and arrangements that spread costs and give us a chance to reorganise society around wellbeing.
Sharing a home is one of the simplest of those arrangements. It might not suit everyone, and it will never be completely friction-free. But being embedded in relationships – with all their inevitable conflicts – is far better for our health and wellbeing than being cut off from other people altogether.
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