Every dollar toward the house. It's the strategy almost everyone starts with, because it feels like commitment and because a cushion sounds like a detour. You'll build a cushion later, once the house is sorted. Right now, the house.
Then the car makes a noise.
What does one repair actually cost you?
Take the example climb on this site. A $36,000 summit, split into forty switchbacks of $900 a month. The member has been logging around $850 a month and has cleared seven switchbacks. Now the car needs $650 of work, and there is no cushion, so the $650 comes out of the house money.
The immediate cost is $650. The real cost is bigger. That withdrawal takes the running total from just past switchback 7 back below it, and depending on where the month lands, it can undo two switchbacks in one afternoon. The summit date, which is what's left divided by your pace, slides later by about a month. And the next paycheck, the one that would have cleared switchback 8, goes to refilling the hole instead.
None of that is dramatic. It's just a month gone, and the month after it half gone. Do it three times in a year, which is about how often ordinary life sends a bill you didn't plan for, and you've lost most of a season without a single bad decision.
Why does it feel worse than the arithmetic?
Because the arithmetic isn't the part that ends plans. The feeling is. Watching money leave the house fund for a car repair tells you, quietly, that the plan doesn't work, that something always comes up, that people like you don't get there. That story is wrong, but it's persuasive, and it's the moment a lot of savers stop logging deposits and go back to the vague account labelled “house”.
A cushion doesn't just protect the number. It protects the story. When the $650 comes out of a pile that exists for exactly that purpose, the plan held. You were right. Keep going.

