I’m sick to my stomach. On the table my ideas for my tiny house are spread out. My mom is ready with her notepad to write everything down and the conversation starts. What do we need? Where do we get the materials? How are we going to do it? Can we do it in three months? It’s dizzying in my head. Nerves are bubbling in my stomach. It’s getting so real.
Dad is sketching what needs to be done with the roof, the trailer and the skeleton messy and roughly to support his words. My laptop is open and all blogs I have read about anything tiny houses and my small folder on Instagram where I saved all my inspiration are ready to make me and my vision clear. And whit every line on paper, the plan gets clearer and the list with materials larger. For the first time real steps are being made, even though I ordered my trailer weeks ago. It’s only now that it is starting to get real, like I can’t go back anymore. As if the idea that I’ve been walking around with in my head, adjusted here and there, stops being just an idea and becomes something that will actually happen.
We sketch some more, talk some more, ask questions that we answer as well. The plan gets clearer and clearer. My nerves get worse and worse, my throat is being squeezed until there is only a small hole left to breath through. That is what I will have to do it with, the coming months.