They Built Two Tiny Homes, Fell in Love, and Moved Into One

Alex and Al started as friends framing two tiny houses side by side—then chose love, sold one, and turned the other into a wood-wrapped jewel on Canada’s west coast. It’s not just a home; it’s their insurance policy, art project, and marriage story rolled into 430 square feet.

Evenings. Weekends. Headlamps and sawdust and the kind of playlists that keep you measuring twice at 11 p.m. That’s how Alex and Al spent 2.5 years building a tiny house while both working full-time—and somewhere between framing and flirting, the plan changed.

They live on the southern Gulf Islands now, tucked into trees where the air smells like cedar and salt. Three years in, the house still hits like a fresh crush.

The original idea? Two houses, built in tandem. One step on hers, one step on his. Then the walls went up, and so did their feelings. They paused his, finished hers, and decided to share it. Reader, they married it. And each other.

Housing on the islands can feel like musical chairs with fewer chairs every year. A tiny home meant security: their roof, their rules, their keys.

Specs, because you’re going to ask: 8.5 feet wide, 13.5 feet high, 24 feet long, with bumpouts on both ends. About 200 square feet on the main, 100 in the lofts, plus a 130-square-foot covered deck—roughly 430 square feet of “oh wow, this is clever.”

It rides on an Iron Eagle trailer with a sunken floor for extra headroom—eight inches of glorious vertical mercy in a world of bonked foreheads.

Outside, the cedar shingles were literally dumpster rescues, resawn and reborn. Their friend Bri added shingle art—chum salmon swimming upstream across the gable. You can practically hear the splash.

Most of the siding came from a 100-year-old house. Ninety percent salvaged, all of it story-rich. The skirting? Beach-found split cedar and orphaned shingles, which also helped them score insurance. Cute and clever is the brand.

Around back, their first shingle art experiment—two little mushrooms—still stands like a baby photo you refuse to take off the fridge.

All in—with materials, fixtures, plumber, electrician—the house cost $75,000 CAD. If they’d billed themselves for labor? Closer to $160,000. DIY saved them the second number and gave them bragging rights forever.

They’re still finishing the kind of fussy bits carpenters always leave for last: a cabinet door here, a trim piece there. It’s the carpenter’s paradox—done, but also never done.

Skirting the home meant switching to mobile home insurance, not tiny home insurance. That tweak plus removing the wheels saves them about $2,000 a year. Somewhere, a spreadsheet purrs.

You’re greeted by two portraits painted by best friends, framed like family heirlooms. It’s the kind of welcome that says, “People built this life with us.”

The dining nook sits lifted like a stage so you can eat with a view—and stash three cavernous drawers underneath. It converts into a daybed with a slide, a lift, and a ta-da. Storage: 10/10, drama: tasteful.

Above it, a guest loft with a twin. If they could redo anything, they’d bump it two feet to fit a double for couples. Tiny living is geometry; they’ve mastered it with grace and a note to future selves.

The desk? A thick maple slab with more drawers. You’re sensing a theme. They counted once: 38 drawers in total. A symphony of soft-close satisfaction.

The wood stove is the smallest you can get that still meets code without eating up half the house. It tucks in snugly, dries laundry like a champ, and turns wet West Coast air into cozy microclimate.

They even built drawers for kindling and paper right under it. If Marie Kondo saw this, she’d clap.

The apartment-size fridge wears a countertop oven crown. It’s not the easiest reach, but they wanted their counters free for cooking, canning, and feasting. No regrets—quarter-sheet trays fit just fine.

In the galley kitchen, a two-burner does the daily job; an extra induction plate comes out for big nights. The sink is satisfyingly big, because small homes don’t require small appetites.

They’re on-grid with 50 amps and well water gravity-fed from blue tanks—an elegant flex when storms knock out power. Gravity doesn’t care about outages.

Bathroom tour: a black flush toilet (septic for the win), a copper sink, and a not-Corian-but-better shower that can handle a move without cracking. Cadillac vibes, no Cadillac drama.

Two closets, huge drawers, and a washing machine—dryer not required. Winter drying happens by the stove, summer drying under the sun. Clothesline nation.

There’s no ladder to the loft. They vault up via countertop and shelves like nimble parkour librarians. Up there: a king bed (because yes, you can), two skylights for stargazing, and a bookshelf hugging the headboard.

The floors are reclaimed bowling alley, gifted by a friend. Every step feels like a strike. The tiles are Fireclay—an investment that pays off in gleam.

They skipped drywall for lightweight wedi board coated in Venetian plaster. Three colors: terracotta in the nook, eggshell in the main space, sage in bath and loft. Warm, tactile, and very “please touch the walls but maybe don’t.”

Outside, an 8-by-16 covered deck stretches their square footage and their social calendar. Driftwood posts from the beach. Glass panels hacked from old sliding doors. The whole thing breaks into four sections and fits in a pickup if they ever move.

Total glass cost? Sixty bucks. Sometimes salvage is less “reduce, reuse” and more “wizardry.”

It’s also Alex’s weaving studio when the weather cooperates. Add in herb beds for kale and daily greens, plus a cold-plunge tub in the cooler months, and you’ve got spa-meets-cabin energy.

Finding a place to park was the hardest level of the game. Midway through building, everyone on their old land got evicted. They relocated to a forest site with no services and powered through on a generator.

How they landed their current dream spot: waterproof flyers on mailboxes in neighborhoods they loved. Now they rent affordably on land already serviced for power, water, and septic, and Al chops winter wood for their landlords. Mutual aid > market chaos.

Once they paid off the small finishing debt, they started saving fast. Rural rent beats city rent, home-cooked beats takeout, gardens beat grocery store prices. Al sold his other tiny house and cleared his student loans, too.

Building made Alex crave 3D creativity, so she learned to weave—and now films the process for YouTube and Instagram as Alex Rooted. It’s a perfect loop: maker by hand, maker on camera.

Al’s a carpenter who knows too well how wasteful building can be. Their home is a small rebellion: salvaged wood, locally milled lumber, old-growth only if it’s already lived a life. Less landfill, more legacy.

People assume tiny means cramped or chaotic. These two say the opposite: it’s easier, sweeter, closer. Every day still comes with a moment of gratitude—a little gasp of “we get to live here.”

They do dream of something bigger one day. Land of their own. A cob house with thick, earthy walls. Until then, the salmon still swim on the gable, the drawers still glide like magic, and the king bed waits under the stars.