Yes/yes, yes, yes, yes, no, yes, yes, no, yes, yes, yes.
We own a 104-year-old house, and I like to tell people that the house is a book of parables, and the moral of every parable is, “Hire a professional.”
From the tin roof pockmarked with holes from where shingles were affixed with cheap nails, creating a watering-can leaking effect; to the subfloor that was patched with '70s-style wood paneling and asbestos tiles; to the backyard storm drain that consisted of a bunch of 50-gallon drums buried end-to-end (and that, when it finally rusted, created a deadly jagged-metal-lined pit trap); to the part of the roof where shingles were literally nailed onto cardboard, to a dozen other fables, my house has one lesson to teach, and it teaches it very expensively.
I’m a great baker, and I made the groom’s cakes for my wedding, and I’ll happily bake fancy stuff given half a chance. But I’m really not handy, nor do I have a lot of tools, nor do I have any particular desire to learn that skillset.
So I hire professionals.