Our home this summer was about the size of a small school bus — a 100-square-foot box tucked beneath the trees, with a kitchen you could reach across, opposing crawl-in lofts, a compostable toilet, and a snug bathtub just big enough for the kids.
To pass someone in the “hallway” (five steps from kitchen to bathroom), we had to turn sideways and suck in our stomachs. What it lacked in space, though, it returned tenfold in everything we’d been missing: a cozy, charming hideaway in the forest, the scent of loamy earth, the rustle of leaves, nights spattered with stars, room to roam and wonder, and birdsong as the loudest sound.
Shannel and I have a borderline obsession with tiny spaces — something about having less feels right. Bigger isn’t better; it just gets in the way of living. We took this one as a challenge, knowing our 3- and 6-year-olds would get a kick out of it too.
Living in San Miguel de Allende, in Mexico’s central highlands, the high-desert landscape has us longing for tall trees and freshwater. We love our cobblestone neighborhood lined with murals and tiendas, but this summer our priority was simple: wild spaces. Forests, rivers, lakes, soil. Our kids come alive there in a way they can’t anywhere else.
So when my cousin offered us her tiny house for July, we said yes before she finished the sentence.
The tiny space supported what we came for: to be outside and to get to know my relatives better. It made the forest our living room. The walls kept us close, but they also nudged us out the door. Staying inside wasn’t an option.
Rethinking Lodging
Most people spend all their time picking the destination and treat lodging like a movie extra — necessary but secondary. Sound familiar? You find a hotel or short-term rental that looks comfortable, book it and move on.
But what if you made your lodging part of the story? Not the backdrop — an actual supporting actor. What if where you stay didn’t just give you rest, but direction?
Before kids, Shannel and I stayed in some truly unique places. We Couchsurfed in Istanbul, slept in a plank shack in the Ecuadorian Amazon, rode overnight trains sitting upright, occupied pungent top and bottom hostel bunks, rested on a hard cot on a roof in India, crashed in a family’s downstairs music room while on a Workaway project, and rented modest rooms in countless shared Airbnbs, often living under the same roof with other families.
Each place shaped and defined how we connected — with people, with the place and with ourselves.
And not every story was good. In Mumbai, we checked into a motel that turned out to be a five-star bedbug resort. When I pointed it out to the host, he begrudgingly moved us to a slightly less infested bed. You win some, you lose some.
We’ve also done the opposite, staying at the JW Marriott in San José del Cabo using credit card points. Five-star comfort. Zero connection to Mexico. I mostly spent our time there driving into town just to buy food and escape the resort bubble. Thirteen pools, but utterly sterile.
When Less Feels Like More
Tiny living is the antidote to that. The smaller the space, the more the world outside expands. After breakfast, we’d spend entire days outdoors, building forts, swimming, fishing, gardening, hiking, visiting farms, and hanging out with cousins.
The tiny house wasn’t just part of the experience. It was the experience.
These days, with our kids in the mix, size or style of lodging doesn’t matter. Two beds, a kitchen, a clean space — that’s all we need. The real question is: does this place help us live the reason we came?
That’s why we rent a small apartment in one of San Miguel’s vibrant neighborhoods instead of a big house with a pool in a gated community on the outskirts. Streets are lively, neighbors close by and local life all around. We want to be in it, not cut off from it.
Make Your Stay Part of the Story
Next time you’re booking a place, ask yourself not just what you can afford, but how it can support the reason you set out in the first place.
Even a simple sightseeing trip can feel like an adventure when you skip the hotel chain or short-term megalith and try a houseboat, van, yurt, treehouse, lighthouse, farm stay, or a spare room in someone’s home.
Where you sleep shapes how you wake up, how you experience a place and who you meet.
Staying in a unique type of accommodation isn’t new, and on its own, might not seem all that interesting. You can easily find unusual places to stay on booking sites, and yes, it’s even become trendy.
What I want you to consider, though, is this: Beyond the novelty, how can a space actively shape your experience? If you need a nudge in a certain direction, how might your accommodation serve as a facilitator?
What’s the most memorable place you’ve ever stayed, and how did it change your trip?
Sounds amazing, would love to experience a tiny house in the forest!
Elias, this is such a good reframe! “Lodging as a travel partner” feels like another way of saying environment is doing more of the work than we realize — not just where you sleep, but how much the place asks of you vs. gives back.
I’ve been thinking about this through capacity too. Some places expand it. Others quietly consume it… even when they look “better” on paper.
We had the same experience recently — the places that worked best weren’t the most impressive, they were the ones that made the reason we came easier to live.
Curious — have you ever chosen a place specifically for what it would remove from your day, not just what it adds?
💛 Kelly