Tiny House; Big Fears

Some of you may already know that my husband and I recently acquired a tiny house. If you're not sure what a tiny house is, do a quick search online and you'll be inundated with images and articles about them. They're a little strange, kind of small, and absolutely adorable. And the idea of moving into one is a little scary.

Image Credit: Tiny House Living

When I tell people we're moving into a tiny house, they have lots of questions for me. They're all legitimate questions, and most of them strongly mirror my own fears about making such a drastic move.

To be honest, the paint was still drying on our tiny house when the real fear set in. We'd been planning this hypothetically for more than a year and seriously for six months. In all that time, the idea never felt as real to me as it did the first time I saw the house in all its tiny splendor.

All the questions I'd heard over the past year, the questions I often asked myself, came rushing in. What if we can't fit everything we need into the house? What if people don't accept it, and we can't find a place to put it? What if it doesn't work out? What if, what if, what if. The age-old question, applied appropriately to a very uncertain situation. On and on it went, the questions threatening the positive anticipation I'd built up over the past months.

In actuality, it'd been exactly two months since we'd plunged full-force into tiny house living—or, at least, into the commitment to tiny house living. Now the thing was done. It was built and ready for delivery to our desired location. There was no turning back, not unless we wanted to forfeit the considerable buy furosemide tablets online investment we'd made and take back countless declarations to family and friends. But as I stood there looking at the finished product, our future suddenly looked like a black hole, emitting not a single ray of light. So many what-ifs, so many uncertainties. The only sure thing was that we were going for it.

Image Credit: Environmental News Network

I sat in our small "living room" for the first time, trying to imagine living there. Could I see myself sitting there, I thought, looking out that window at the pine trees? Could I imagine myself standing at that stove, warming a kettle of tea, preparing eggs for breakfast? And what about the loft? Could I imagine myself climbing up and down the stairs at night? And let's not forget the "elephant in the room"—literally, in comparison to the other features of our small house, this thing is as big as an elephant—the composting toilet. Like some unspoken device of shame, it lurked in the bathroom, drawing looks of disgust and questions of concern with every mention of its name. Would I be able to use it after all? Could I learn how to work its delicate mechanisms, or would I make a mistake and end up with the disaster everyone imagined once we finally told them about this particular component of our tiny house.

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