For a single woman in Dallas to purchase a 1929 Tudor house was a big deal. I loved my house. I had a garden, a woodshop; I built a yoga deck in back. But after a while I felt trapped. I was a paralegal, but I found myself living paycheck to paycheck and in fear that the plumbing might go or the furnace would fail. Then, in 2012, my boss of 20 years told me he was retiring—and that I was being let go. About that time, a storm hit and shredded every house in the neighborhood, including mine.
I just threw in the towel.
I had a closetful of black suits, was trying multimillion-dollar cases, going to fancy parties—and I walked away. I realized I wasn’t living the life I wanted to be living, that I was too dependent on others for my well-being. So I opened the doors to my house, enlisted my neighbors as cashiers, and put a price tag on everything. The only things I kept were my power tools and camping gear.
I’d always done what everyone expected of me, so this was out of character. But I was following my heart and it turned out to be the best thing I’ve ever done. Eighteen months after I sold my Tudor, I started building my tiny house. I had a lot of help—from friends, from the girls at Mentoring a Girl in Construction camp, from strangers who heard about my project and wanted to help. I never forget that this house inspired and empowered all of these people.
Often, when I pull up to my house, I’ll take a moment and just say, Holy cow, I built that with my own hands. I mean, I sunk almost every nail. But it’s become so much more than a house. My Tudor was 1,148 square feet, and now I’m living in 78 square feet. When you downsize like this, you’re surrounded by only the things you’ve loved. You’ve gotten rid of everything that clutters your vision, so everything you see around you is what you’ve chosen and what you love dearly. And my tiny house, my sanctuary, holds all of that.
~ B. A. Norrgard, tiny house educator and advocate, Garland, TX