Little Home, Big Love

In 2021, we sold our house and made what felt like a bold but simple decision, buy an RV with cash and park it in my parents’ backyard. At the time, it seemed almost exciting. Minimal debt. Simpler living. Freedom from the crushing weight of bills. We barely overthought it.

“How hard could it be?” we told ourselves.

At least we’d be debt free.

The first night in the RV told a different story.

I cried quietly into my pillow, trying not to wake anyone up. I wasn’t just uncomfortable, I was grieving. Homesick for a house that still existed, but no longer belonged to us. I missed our little home tucked into the cul-de-sac. The familiar walls. The way it smelled after dinner. The comfort of knowing where everything belonged. I didn’t realize how much safety can live inside four ordinary walls until they were gone.

Living in an RV through Oregon winters deserves its own survival badge. The heat ran constantly, yet somehow it was never quite warm enough. Every inch of space had to work overtime. Cooking dinner felt like solving a puzzle while balancing on one foot. Move this to reach that. Stack this to open that drawer. Simple tasks became exhausting choreography.

Nothing was easy.

And yet, life still kept happening inside those cramped walls.

My daughter’s sleepovers felt more like permanent camping trips. Blankets everywhere. Giggles packed into tiny corners.

But after three years, we were tired.

Tired of the metal walls. Tired of feeling temporary. Tired of surviving instead of settling.

So we made another leap.

We upgraded, not into a giant dream house, but into something that mattered more; a place that actually felt like home.

We bought a park model home. Think tiny home… but mansion edition. A manufactured-style home tucked into just 399 square feet, somehow designed to feel both cozy and breathable at the same time. Not to mention, a normal flushable toilet. After years of living in what often felt like a rolling metal shoebox, stepping into this space felt luxurious.

Not because it was big.

Because it felt grounded.

Solid floors. Real walls. A kitchen that didn’t require a strategy meeting before cooking dinner. Windows that made the space feel alive instead of boxed in.

It wasn’t a mansion by most people’s standards, but to us, it felt like a million dollars.

And maybe that’s the strange thing about starting over. Sometimes losing space teaches you what actually makes a home valuable in the first place. Not square footage. Not granite countertops. Not fancy neighborhoods.

Just safety.

Warmth.

Peace.

And the people you love squeezed inside it.

Turns out when you live tiny, every single item either earns its place… or becomes your enemy.

Stay tuned for tiny living organization hacks, storage ideas, and the ongoing battle against clutter in 399 square feet.