One week ago, I was in my LA apartment, scrolling Tyler’s engagement post, feeling like a stranger in my own life.
Now I’m in Maple Glen. Committed—financially and otherwise—to a collapsing house, a moody contractor, and a town betting on me to fail.
I pull out the notebook I always carry—habit from my PR days—and open to a fresh page.
Tiny House Rules
Don’t buy houses while drunk.
No power tools after 10 p.m.
I stare at the list. Then add:
Prove them wrong.
Because the truth is, I’m tired of being the one who leaves. Tired of running when things get hard. Tired of being the punchline in someone else’s cautionary tale.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The light over the garden glows warm, soft, and promising.
Maybe this house won’t be the end of me.
Maybe it’ll be the first thing I don’t walk away from.
The sunrisein Maple Glen doesn’t creep—it ambushes. One moment, the world is wrapped in predawn gray; the next, light spills over the mountains like someone flipped a cosmic switch, painting everything in gold.
I’m sitting on the hood of my rental car, second cup of gas station coffee cradled in my hands, watching the transformation unfold across my disaster of a property. Yesterday’s storm has cleared, leaving the air scrubbed clean and the grass beaded with dew. Steam rises off the ground as the sun warms the earth, casting a misty halo around the tiny house.
Mytiny house.
In this light—without the apocalyptic rain and crushing disappointment of first sight—I can see... something. Notpotentialexactly. I’m notthatdelusional. Butpossibility.The clearing is bigger than I realized, wildflowers dotting the edges where yard meets forest. Through the trees, I catch a glimpse of a mountain ridge that was hidden behind yesterday’s downpour. And the house itself, while still an OSHA nightmare, has a charm in its weathered blue siding and pitched roof that’s hard to ignore.
“This could be something,” I say out loud, testing the words. They don’t feel entirely convincing—but they’re not completely ridiculous either.
I slide off the hood and start a slow loop around the property, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. The land is beautiful—a quarter acre of mostly cleared space hugged by towering pinesand maples. The ground is still soggy, but I’m grateful for the hiking boots I panic-bought at the outlet mall. An upgrade from yesterday’s platform sandal fiasco.
At the back of the property, I find a small stream carving through the treeline, bubbling over rocks and disappearing into the forest. It’s almost offensively picturesque—like the universe is trying to apologize for handing me a collapsing roof and probable black mold.
I stop at the far corner and turn to face the house. From here, with the sun hitting just right, I see not what it is—but what itcouldbe. Not a rotting shed with a stripper-name nickname, but something small and solid. A place that could reflect the person I want to become, instead of the one I’ve been performing.
I’ve spent my adult life on the run. New city, new job, new me—any time things got hard. I’m the human equivalent of a commitment-phobic boyfriend, as Walt so eloquently implied.
But maybe this is the thing Idon’trun from. Maybe this disaster is exactly what I need: a project Ican’teasily abandon. A commitment I’ve accidentally, but thoroughly, married.
I pull out my phone and open the camera. Before I can overthink it, I snap a photo of the house—bathed in gold light, steam rising like a fairy tale if fairy tales included rot and rusty nails.
“I could run again,” I say to the empty clearing. “Or I could finally build something real.”
