A Case for Buying a Home in Residency— And Why It Might Not Be the Best Choice for You

I signed my residency contract in Southern California and immediately started browsing Zillow — the way you do when you’ve spent a decade not owning anything and suddenly have a zip code that feels like yours.

Housing is one of the first real financial decisions physicians face, and it carries far more emotional weight than most of us admit. We’re quietly taught that success means ownership. That renting is stagnation. That once you finally have income—any income—you should start building equity, as if the act of signing a mortgage is proof you’ve made it.

After years of sacrifice, geographic instability, and delayed everything, residency gives you something that feels permanent: a contract, a city, and three or more years where you know exactly where you’ll be sleeping. I understand the draw.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth I had to learn firsthand: residency is not your home. It’s where you live while training. And just because you finally have income doesn’t mean every financial lever is ready to be pulled.

I bought a home during residency—and while it worked out for me, I agree with The White Coat Investor that in most cases, it’s not a good idea. Let me explain why.

The Conventional Wisdom—And Why It Holds

I was introduced to The White Coat Investor during a didactic session in my fourth year of medical school, winter of 2018. Like many of us, I spent hours on planes bouncing between interview cities, and I became obsessed—listening to every podcast episode available at the time, absorbing the philosophy. I still believe it holds true for the vast majority of trainees.

The argument against buying in residency is straightforward, and it’s persuasive. Resident salaries are thin. Even with a physician loan, a mortgage that looks reasonable on paper can feel oppressive the moment repairs, furnishings, and life happen simultaneously. Student loan debt already limits optionality—adding illiquid real estate debt on top of educational debt compounds risk, especially when your income is capped for three to five years. And three to five years is rarely enough time to reliably break even on a property once you account for transaction costs, maintenance, and opportunity cost. Homeownership expenses are consistently underestimated—it’s not just the mortgage. It’s blinds, furniture, locks, repairs, HOA fees, insurance, taxes, and time. Always time.

I remember spending eight hundred dollars on blinds because my condo had none—financed at zero percent, paid off over nine months. Before they were installed, someone broke in, slept inside the unit, and stole my belongings. They could see straight through the windows. That’s not a line item anyone budgets for.

Then there are the tax benefits, which are mostly overstated at resident income levels. At a low marginal bracket with a high standard deduction, most residents see little to no meaningful advantage from ownership. And renting? Renting gives you the one thing residents undervalue most: the ability to walk away cleanly when things go sideways. If you can rent furnished, you avoid one of the biggest hidden costs of early training—acquiring and moving furniture you didn’t even own before residency.

When Buying Can Make Sense—With Heavy Caveats

There are situations where ownership may be reasonable, but even then, the risks don’t vanish. Longer training programs offer more time to stabilize costs. Stable geographic plans help—though ownership can quietly bias you toward staying put, causing you to miss better opportunities elsewhere. In high-rental-friction markets, the math can push ownership closer to parity.

But even in these cases, flexibility remains king. Owning a home can trap you—psychologically and financially—in ways you don’t fully appreciate until you need to move and can’t.

Why I Did It Anyway

Before medical school, I had about three hundred dollars to my name. During large stretches of training, I slept in my truck. By the time I started residency, I carried roughly four hundred thousand dollars in medical school debt and earned something close to ten dollars an hour if you count every hour the job actually demands. Every physician’s financial story is different—and geography matters more than people admit.

I matched into Southern California—a vacation destination with strong long-term rental demand. During my audition rotation, I stayed in the same condo complex I would eventually buy in. It was already operating as an Airbnb, and that experience proved something important: people wanted to stay there, and they would pay for it.

I didn’t have a grand plan. But I knew I wanted real estate as an asset class long-term, and I wanted the experiment—the education of owning something, managing it, learning what breaks and what it costs when it does. I used a zero-down physician loan, borrowing family money to cover closing costs. But “zero down” doesn’t mean free. Closing costs, carrying costs, and opportunity cost still apply.

I made one rule with myself: I would not buy anything I couldn’t afford on my residency salary alone, even if it was tight. The plan was to house hack—rent a room to other residents to offset the mortgage. In theory, this would let me live for free.

In practice? You still spend money furnishing the place. Fixing things. Learning painful, expensive lessons about what it means to own something.

The Reality No One Talks About

Residency income doesn’t leave much margin for error. You’re not in a meaningful tax bracket. You don’t have excess cash. Any unexpected expense feels enormous—and in a home you own, unexpected expenses are not a matter of if, but when.

Later, during COVID, I refinanced to 2.9 percent—a rate that’s nearly impossible to replicate in today’s market. That single event materially changed the trajectory of the investment. I stayed in the condo through residency and fellowship. Moonlighting and locums work allowed me to stabilize finances. Eventually, I left California for a variety of reasons and converted the property into a true investment.

That transition—primary residence to business asset—is where things get complicated. Renovations aren’t cheap. Managing remotely is hard. Paying rent and a mortgage simultaneously while funding a renovation is real financial bleed. Add contractors, cleaners, accountants, and a property manager, and suddenly you’re running a small company while still figuring out your clinical identity.

The Long Game

I once heard something on the Passive MD podcast that stuck with me:

“You may not make money on your first real estate deal—but you’ll pay for an education.”

That proved true. I made mistakes. I paid for them. But the experience has been invaluable.

Today, after renovations and appreciation, I have meaningful equity. I can access a HELOC to fund additional properties without injecting new capital. That first condo has become a launchpad—not just an investment, but a foundation for something larger.

But here’s the key: this only works if you’re comfortable with debt, leverage, and risk management—skills I developed across multiple asset classes over time. It wasn’t intuitive. It wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t guaranteed.

Do I Regret It?

That’s complicated. Financially, it worked. Educationally, it was priceless. Emotionally, it was stressful in ways I didn’t anticipate.

The property now cash flows. It’s generated significant deductions. And it has created optionality—fewer shifts, more freedom, more leverage in my career. After fellowship, my story is wildly different from where it started.

But I started with nothing. And I don’t say that lightly.

What I’d Tell You Now

If you’re asking me for a blanket recommendation: no. Buying a home in residency is usually not a good idea—especially in the current climate, where rates are elevated, inventory is unpredictable, and the margin for error is thinner than it’s been in years.

But if you are deeply committed to real estate as an asset class, if you understand that you may lose money, if you value the education more than the return, and if you’re willing to trade short-term comfort for long-term optionality—then maybe.

Just go in with your eyes wide open.

I think about those empty windows sometimes—the condo with no blinds, someone sleeping inside because they could see there was nothing worth protecting yet. In a way, that’s what buying in residency is: moving into a life before the furniture arrives, betting that eventually you’ll fill it with something worth keeping.

Disclaimer: This content is for informational and entertainment purposes only and represents my personal experience. I am not a financial advisor, and nothing here should be considered financial, legal, or tax advice. Always seek guidance from a qualified professional.