One Saturday afternoon in late May, I puzzled over my toilet seat, attempting to decipher the strange Hieroglyphics someone had drawn onto the porcelain surface using Sharpie marker. Or maybe waterproof mascara?

Weeks earlier, my husband and I had listed our home for rent through a broker. We live in Cape May, a quaint Victorian town at the tip of the Jersey Shore, and it seemed like an easy way to make some extra cash. In short order, we weeded and mulched the flower beds, found a management company to handle changeover cleanings, and debated the appropriate number of beach towels to leave behind.

But now, as I inspected my defaced bathroom after the first set of guests checked out, I realized I’d neglected to prepare for one thing: the queasy feeling of having strangers in my space, touching my stuff, sleeping in my bed, leaving greasy takeout containers on my living room floor. (Don’t they know that’s the hallowed spot where Rudy, my beloved 15-year-old German shepherd, passed away in my arms!?) I felt a strange sense of territorialism creeping in.

“If we’ve taken the time and effort to put our personalities into our environments and to feel connected with them and express ourselves through them, inviting others in puts us in a vulnerable position,” said Lindsay T. Graham, a space researcher and social psychologist at the Center for Built Environment at the University of California at Berkeley. “It may sound cheesy, but you’re handing a piece of yourself over to a stranger who might not respect it. You’re renting out part of your identity.”