Tiny Living in a Noisy World
How retreat leadership taught me to take up space
To say I understand the term “tiny living” would be an understatement.
I am 62.5 inches tall. I have always suggested to the medical assistant at any doctor’s appointment that they are free to round up or down. I claim the half inch either way, although if I am anything like my grandmother, I will be a mere five feet by my nineties. That half inch of bone density is disappearing along with my steady stream of estrogen and dopamine.
I use step stools to reach tall shelves. My preference for hugging my husband is to be one step up from him on a flight of stairs. It’s humorous until I’m unheard in conversations, especially the hallway variety where I’m pumping my feet furiously to keep up with tall coworkers. My tiny larynx struggles to project my voice upwards by six or eight inches.
I don’t expect pity for my genetic shortcoming, but I do believe it prevented me from fully expressing myself for most of my life. I shrank because it required an exorbitant amount of energy to take up space.
An appreciation for all things tiny? I finally feel SEEN.
When “tiny” living became a trend a decade ago, I was happy to jump on board. After all, Merriam-Webster even lists the idiom good things come in small packages on their website. The tiny house movement gave me the ability to help others in a trend-right space: our twenty-acre hobby farm, Part Time Pastures.
We purchased our property in October 2018, just five months after I kicked booze to the curb. The hard work my husband and I put into the raw land wouldn’t be possible with a fuzzy head, so the timing was nothing short of magic.
Over the course of five years, we built a chicken coop, multiple sheds and tractor ports, five acres of fencing and a corral shelter for our (tiny) Dexter cattle herd, and a garden that was always haphazard at best, but was my favorite annual experiment.
In early 2020, once I felt more confident in our DIY abilities, I was struck by an idea. The rural property had been such a big part of my healing journey that I wanted to share it with others.
What about, I imagined, a holistic homestead experience for other women?
Shortly after this idea took hold and my dream formulated into concrete action items, the pandemic began. Any real-life gatherings were put on hold, but it gave me plenty of time to solidify a curriculum and create a business plan.
Most importantly, it gave me time to overcome the fear and impostor syndrome that would come with leading others.
Tiny people are invisible, or so I believed for a very long time.
Fast forward to spring 2022 and I set my flag, laying claim to a date in early September for the first event. I was off to the races, furiously finalizing every detail.
I ordered the furnishings for three fancy White Duck Outdoors canvas tents. Despite even me ducking to enter, the 13’ center height was suitable for any size and slept two people comfortably. Each tent was named after a boat-rocking role model: Carrie Marcus, Emma Tenayuca and Lady Bird Johnson.
I sold my beloved Jeep in favor of a 384-square-foot cabin shell, designed to be premium lodging for the anti-glamper. During its build-out, my husband was forced to have shoulder surgery. I learned to wire lights and install baseboards with his guidance, install vinyl flooring on my own, and tackle taping and bedding sheetrock.
I channeled my renovation idol, Nicole Curtis (who coincidentally comes in a small package). Being tiny paid off when I had to crawl underneath the building to install the plumbing line to the kitchen. I documented the entire journey for YouTube and still marvel at my accomplishments considering my novice skill set.
On the evening of September 9th, several women from surrounding metropoles of Texas arrived at our little slice of the northern Hill Country. Palpable apprehension mixed with optimism filled the air. We made introductions and settled in the nearly complete cottage for my charcuterie spread. Everyone, including me, breathed a collective sigh at the natural ease with which we gelled.
Saturday morning, we bonded over coffee, then took a short trek down to another semi-tiny dwelling – the 600-square-foot workshop delivered in spring and purchased with every cent of my day-job savings.
I did little to finish out the “yoga barn” as we dubbed it - just a simple coat of porch paint on the plywood floor and some curtains to give a feminine feel to the otherwise rustic space. The three large barn doors that opened to the pasture were the showstoppers. Mother Nature is the best decorator.
Throughout the gathering, I allowed plenty of breaks for introversion recharge. Every time I returned to the tiny cottage, however, laughter spilled from inside. Nobody squandered a moment of connection, even cramped inside a tiny makeshift kitchen.
Small but mighty, megaphone in hand
I am incredibly proud of what I created that year. Tiny spaces that filled hearts to the brim. Miniature dwellings with all the creature comforts of home. A small chunk of time to truly unplug from an increasingly busy culture.
And me, stepping boldly into the role of “retreat host”, a leadership role my inner wise woman had assured me, during a desperate pandemic year, was coming.
Although my small business didn’t flourish at the time, it served as a training ground for a reemergence of the idea. Now, four years later, I am scheduling retreats with new experience. I’ve opened and closed a yoga studio, embodied the confidence that comes with corporate team leadership, and learned to take up space, physically and energetically.
I still come in a tiny, 5’2” package, but I am no longer content to sit quietly in the middle of the boat while life passes me by. I’m now the coxswain, the “coach in the boat”. Necessarily small, these leaders motivate rowers to work together, navigate challenges, and stay on target.
Taking up space may never feel easy, but it finally feels authentic. I no longer measure leadership by volume or dominance, but by consistency and courage. For nearly a decade now, I’ve led quietly—through example, tenacity, and resilience. If playing big means living in alignment with who I am, then I have arrived, megaphone and all.