Diamond in the Rough: A tiny living dream is born.

“Do you really want to live in the shed?”

It had been a couple weeks since my sister had given me a tour of her new rental house in East Oakland, including the dilapidated tool shed in the back yard. At the time I had half-jokingly referred to it as “my house.” She was surprised but curious, and even a little bit encouraging. I imagine she said something to the effect of, “That would be sick.” I’m not sure if she truly believed in me, was amused by my crazy idea, or just wanted cheaper rent, but somehow the idea stuck with her. I don’t remember my response at the time, but within a month I was moving out of my rented room in San Francisco and beginning the year-long process of turning that shed into my home.

To back it up a bit, I’ve always been a little bit obsessed with unconventional housing. I remember the first time I saw a modern school bus home in Dwell magazine. It blew my mind in the best way possible. I would later learn that they are colloquially referred to as “schoolies,” and that there is an entire community devoted to sharing knowledge and inspiration about them. I’m old enough to remember a time before social media, when ideas were shared via magazines, books, and a new thing called blogs. As platforms like Instagram and Pinterest blossomed around me, so did my ideas of what is possible when it comes to small, nomadic housing.

Anyway, back to the shack. When the shed found me, I was living in one of the most expensive areas of the country, saddled with over $30,000 in debt (mostly from a failed attempt at a BFA), and feeling like something had to give. I was paying $1,200 a month to live in a house with roommates that I actively avoided in the common space. It felt like I was hurtling full-speed toward a dead end. So when the opportunity presented itself, I went for it. “If nothing else, it’ll make a good story,” I told myself.

The house that my sister lived in was a well-loved rental that was coming apart at the seams from years of neglect and haphazard maintenance. The landlord, who had once lived there herself, was a an elderly cat-lady with a heart of gold and penchant for sketchy contractors. She had a spoken agreement with my sister (and her partner at the time) that they would inherit the property when she passed, so putting a little bit of effort—and money—into the project seemed like a safe bet. Spoiler alert: that’s not what happened, but that’s a story for another time. Suffice to say, between the eccentric landlord and the handful of punk kids living in the house, there were not a lot of fucks to give about doing things legally.

So in November of 2018, sans building permit, I began my next chapter: not only a house, but also a dream of financial freedom and simple living.