By then, I was in my early 50s and began to crave something I’d thought would always be out of my reach: a home of my own.

I knew exactly the kind of home I wanted: something small and sustainable, almost like a cabin. I did a Natural Building course to learn about straw-bale houses and building with cheap, recycled materials.

But there was one big, persistent problem: I had no land to build on, and no way of buying any.

Then I heard about tiny houses on wheels, and they ticked all my boxes. They were inexpensive to build and to live in. You could park your tiny house on someone else’s land for a small fee. Best of all, tiny houses encouraged the kind of minimalist lifestyle I’d grown to love on my travels.

I also loved that you could build a tiny house yourself, because they’re small and there’s no tiny house building code, at least not in Australia. Unfortunately, I had zero building experience.

COVID-19 stopped me in my tracks and changed my life. Being unable to travel opened a window of opportunity.

I suddenly had an abundance of time and a government wage subsidy to live on (because my work was impacted by border closures). Building my own tiny house began to seem doable. My lack of experience actually made the idea more appealing. I’d been writing about adventure for years.

I did a tiny-house-building workshop, read up on the architecture of small spaces, and ordered a tiny house trailer.

I also enlisted a few helpers, the main one being my partner at the time, Max. A retired scientist and a talented woodworker, Max had all the tools we would need and, importantly, a place where we could do the build: the driveway beside his house.

By September 2020, we’d started work on the floor and the timber frame. Then came the windows, the cladding, and the roof. Max’s best friend, a retired builder, helped out for the first couple of months to ensure everything was structurally sound. After that, Max and I worked six, often seven, days a week on the interior fit-out.

It was all intensely fascinating, exhausting, and stressful, because as my tiny house was coming together, our relationship began falling apart. It didn’t survive the build, but we managed to keep working together.

In May 2021, at the age of 56, I moved into my tiny house, the very first home I’ve ever owned.

My new home might have been mobile and small — just 23 feet long and 8 feet wide — but it gave me a sense of safety and security I’d never experienced before. It was such a relief, like finally anchoring in a quiet bay after being tossed around in a never-ending storm.

There’s still uncertainty baked into this way of life because tiny house regulations haven’t yet caught up to the popularity of this movement, and many of us still have to rent parking spaces for our tiny houses on other people’s land.

The uncertainty pales in comparison to the simple, everyday joys of living tiny, like: watching native birds as I eat my breakfast at the kitchen bench with all the windows open, writing at my desk with a view of the trees, sitting on my deck on warm summer evenings, and looking at the stars as I fall asleep in my cozy bed loft each night.

Tiny house life has also been immensely liberating.

After the build, I moved my tiny house from Max’s land to a friend’s property, where my weekly rent is less than half the average rent for an apartment in my area. I have no debt. I have time for long walks with friends and to volunteer in my local community garden. I have more time to write, too, and paid work doesn’t dominate my life like it used to, when I was always struggling to make ends meet.

I know tiny houses aren’t for everyone, but mine is my sanctuary, one that suits me down to the ground it’s parked on. I honestly can’t imagine living anywhere else.