Surreal, exhausting, slightly terrifying... but also exactly where I’m meant to be.
When I first walked onto the land after settlement, it felt oddly split in two, like it hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet. A neat, grassy entrance, trimmed like it was expecting guests. And then beyond that, a full hectare of overgrown grass and gorse. Wild. Unapologetic. Very Northland.
I knew it was going to be a lot of work. I just didn’t realise how quickly it would all begin.
Paperwork, Permits & Plans
Those first few weeks were full noise.
I worked with my builder to get the geotech report done so we could submit the building consent application. At the same time, I had to arrange a formal valuation on what the first house would be worth once completed, just to keep the bank happy and reassure them that I wasn’t building some elaborate treehouse with fairy lights and no resale value.
I finalised the house layout, chose the materials, and got lost in the obsessive details of designing the kitchen. There were about four hours where I spiralled over which exact shade of oak the cabinets should be. (Do you want warm oak? Cool oak? Slightly regret-your-life-choices oak?) It’s all fun and games until you realise the one you picked in daylight looks completely different under LEDs.
Once all of that was in council hands, I turned to the other part of the dream: getting the tiny house sites ready.
From Gorse to Grounded
Site One was feral. Gorse everywhere. I hired a local guy with a digger to come in and carve out a driveway, clear the land, and level a spot for parking. That section now has its own completely separate entrance, tucked away in a corner of the property where the tenant can come and go without us even seeing each other. It’s entirely off-grid, just how they like it.
Site Two is further up the hill and looks out over gorgeous rural views. Hidden behind a screen of mature trees, it’s peaceful and private, and it has both power and a large water tank. The plan was always to offer two different setups, one off-grid, one semi-serviced, and give each tenant proper space. I didn’t want this to feel like a campground. I wanted it to feel like home.
They both moved in not long after the sites were prepped. And in one of those strange, cinematic moments, both tiny homes arrived on the same day. It felt huge. Like a shift in the land, and in me.
The Driveway, the Neighbours & the Fear
One of the first things I did after buying the property was walk the boundaries and introduce myself to the neighbours. I wanted them to hear the plan from me, not from whispers or assumptions. I explained that I’d be leasing land to a couple of tiny house tenants, building two modest homes, and aiming to keep everything respectful and low-impact.
A few raised eyebrows turned into warm conversations. Most people just wanted to know I wasn’t setting up a caravan commune or doing something dodgy. Once we’d talked through things, you could feel the worry dissolve.
And I needed that good energy, because the fear? It’s real.
Some mornings I wake up thinking, What have I done?
I’m still paying rent elsewhere. I’ve got a mortgage. I’ve got a build ahead of me. And like any self-respecting woman who’s watched too many episodes of Grand Designs, I know exactly how quickly budgets can get blown. Kevin McCloud’s smug, concerned face lives in my head rent-free.
But when I pull up to the driveway, I feel something else too: grounded. Happy. Peaceful.
It still doesn’t feel quite real, but it does feel like mine.
Running on Spreadsheets & Stubbornness
I’ve realised something important about myself through all of this: I don’t make impulsive decisions. I can’t. I get overwhelmed if I have to choose something on the spot. I need time. I need options. And yes, I need a spreadsheet.
If something’s not on a list or in a document, my brain can’t process it. It might not be glamorous, but it’s how I’ve made this work. Every driveway quote. Every timeline. Every contingency plan. They’re all laid out in cells and colour-coded tabs. That’s where my sense of control lives.
And when the decisions feel too big? I break them down until they feel small. Because at the end of the day, this isn’t just a house build. It’s a full-blown life rebuild. And the last thing I want is to recreate the same financial stress and burnout I went tiny to escape.
Progress, But Also Patience
Right now, the land is changing. Slowly. Tangibly.
There’s still more landscaping to do, especially once the wetter months arrive and I can actually get plants in the ground. I’ve got big dreams for a lush, tropical garden that wraps around the houses and frames the driveways. But without the water tanks installed and filled, I’ve had to hold back. Clay soil and full sun don’t exactly scream “thriving banana grove.”
But I can see it. I can feel it. The future I’ve been planning for years is unfolding, tentatively, stubbornly, beautifully.
The tenants are happy. The land is quiet. The paperwork is moving (slowly, as it does). And me?
I’m still scared sometimes. Still overwhelmed. But I also feel proud. And ready. And like for the first time in a very long time, this plan might actually work.
