We lived in my mother-in-law's freezing garage in Utah for 1.5 years. It helped us save thousands, but I sometimes felt ashamed.
Kassidy Meinhardt Photography
- Our rent was set to increase by 50% so instead we moved in with my mother-in-law.
- Her garage was the only available space, so we cleaned it up and made it as homey as we could.
- We were there for 1.5 years until another opportunity came along.
My husband and I spent nearly two years living in his mother's garage for $250 a month.
It wasn't the cute, converted kind you see on DIY TikTok with string lights and space-saving hacks. I'm talking cement floors, cobwebs in the rafters, exposed insulation, and space heaters aimed directly at the bed just to get us through the winter of 2022-2023 — one of Utah's heaviest snowfall winters to date.
Courtesy of Thea Atkinson
Deciding to live there didn't feel like a romantic or bold choice. It felt like our only choice if we wanted a chance at having something of our own one day.
We were tired of chasing our own tails
We moved over Memorial Day weekend of 2022. Our lease was up in our duplex apartment, and the rent was about to skyrocket by more than 50%. The idea of continuing the endless cycle of renting while barely being able to set aside enough to save for a down payment on a home felt like chasing our tails.
So we decided to move into the garage, which was the only space in my mother-in-law's home that she had available. The $250 a month covered our utility use and allowed us to put an extra $1,500 toward paying down student debt and boosting our savings.
Courtesy of Thea Atkinson
While it was barely habitable, we did our best to make the space homey. To start, we pressure-washed every surface, scrubbing rodent droppings from nooks and crannies and bleaching everything from floor to ceiling.
Then, we added a large donated area rug and a couple of second-hand couches, and I packed in as many house plants as possible. Since there were no closets, we hung our clothes on racks we bought on Facebook Marketplace.
Courtesy of Thea Atkinson
Over the holidays, we added some decorations and played fireplace YouTube videos on the TV for a cozy, albeit artificial, ambiance.
Our story isn't unique, and maybe that's what makes it so devastating
In Summit County, Utah — where my husband was born and raised — the median home price as of January hovered around $1.7 million, the highest in the state. We're not looking for anything close to that, but instead hope for something near the $450,000 price range, which still feels like a stretch here.
You might be thinking that moving to a cheaper area could be the solution, but that would mean leaving the town and tight-knit community we want to raise a family in, and that's a trade we're not ready to make.
I came from a big Mormon family — the oldest of six children. We never wanted for love or food on the table, but when your parents are trying to stretch what they have between a gaggle of children, there's not much left to assist with down payments or real estate leg-ups. That kind of help just isn't in the cards.
Still, my husband and I were determined to build a life in his hometown. We dreamed of a small piece of land where we could continue his family's legacy of farming, raise some children, and enjoy slow evenings sitting on the porch watching the sun go down over the Uinta Mountains.
Our version of that dream came with frost-crusted mornings, penny pinching, and forgoing simple pleasures like going out to dinner or buying to-go coffee in the mornings.
What it was like living in a garage
Courtesy of Thea Atkinson
Living with all our belongings in one large room, with boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling, often felt cramped and cluttered.
Sometimes I'd lie in the darkened room at night, looking up at the garage door tracks overhead and wonder if we'd lost our minds. If all this sacrifice was really worth it. And often, the honest answer was a resounding: "I'm not sure."
There were moments I felt ashamed. I'd go into my office in nice-looking thrifted clothing and feel like I was hiding some secret failure. On the surface, we looked like we had things together.
No one knew we spent our nights huddled with our sweet Bernese mountain dog for warmth (even though we aren't typically cuddly sleepers). Or that we cried in that crowded space many times, contemplating how we were ever going to afford to get somewhere more comfortable. Or how, no matter how many plants I added, it never stopped feeling like survival mode.
Courtesy of Thea Atkinson
After a year and a half, we were finally able to move in with another family member, where we have more space and creature comforts.
As difficult as our stretch in the garage was, it allowed us to pay down $15,000 in debt and save enough for a small down payment on a modest piece of land. Now, we plan to build a modest home of our own, which feels more attainable than buying even the most "affordable" house in our area.
In our small town, it seems like more and more locals are being replaced and priced out by retirees from California, second homeowners, and short-term rentals. The reality is, many from small, picturesque towns like ours can't afford to stay in the places they were raised unless they downsize.
I know we aren't alone. Quietly, others, like us, are doing something similar, whether it's living in basements, converting sheds into tiny homes, or moving back in with parents. It's basically downsizing into survival mode to help buy a more comfortable future.
It's humbling and sometimes humiliating, but it's also a kind of hope. A gamble. A stubborn belief that maybe, just maybe, it might be enough to build something that feels like home.