I carry this dream the way some people carry a childhood song, always humming softly in the background of my days, sometimes swelling so loudly it brings tears to my eyes. 
It is the dream of a tiny house, a small and intentional home, built not to impress but to belong. A home that breathes with the land around it, whether that land is the rolling, dew kissed countryside of Hampshire or the sun warmed earth of Cyprus, Morocco, or another place where paws wander the streets with no one to call their own.
In my dream, the house is modest, almost shy, as if it does not wish to take more than it needs. Wooden walls warmed by morning light, windows thrown open to birdsong, and the quiet comfort of knowing that every corner has purpose. 
It is a home shaped by love rather than size. A kettle singing on the stove. Mud on the floor from joyful feet that have known hardship and finally learned safety. 
Laughter, quiet tears, and the deep peace that comes from choosing a life that aligns with the heart.
But this house is never just for me and my hubby. It has never been just for us. It is a refuge, a rescue centre wrapped in the softness of a home. A place where frightened dogs arrive with eyes dulled by hunger and betrayal, and leave with tails that wag like miracles. A place where cats who have learned to live between shadows finally stretch out in the sun without fear. 
I imagine them discovering kindness for the first time, as if it is a foreign language they slowly learn to trust.
I think of Hampshire, with its misty mornings and ancient hedgerows, where the world feels slower and gentler. I imagine the rhythm of the seasons there, the way autumn smells of earth and leaves, the way winter invites closeness and shared warmth. Then my heart drifts south, to lands where the sun is relentless and the need is overwhelming. Streets where animals survive rather than live, where resilience replaces comfort, and where a single safe place could change countless lives. 
In Cyprus, in Morocco, in so many corners of the world, love is needed urgently and abundantly.
This dream is romantic, yes, but it is also fierce. 
It is rooted in the belief that compassion does not have to be grand to be powerful. That a tiny home can hold enormous healing. 
That choosing to care is a radical act in a world that often looks away. 
I want this place to be a quiet rebellion against indifference, a whispered promise that every life matters, even the ones the world forgets.
At night, in my imagination, the house settles into silence broken only by gentle breathing and the soft padding of paws. I lie there knowing that outside the walls the world is still complicated and cruel, but inside, for this moment, there is safety. 
There is belonging. 
There is love that asks for nothing in return except presence.
This dream is not about escape. It is about arrival. Arriving at the life I know I am meant to live. 
One where my days are measured not by achievement but by connection. One where healing flows both ways, where broken hearts learn together how to trust again. 
One tiny house. 
Many rescued souls. 
A lifetime of shared grace.
Until next time,

Ta ta for now,

Yours, Lainey.

🐾🐾🐾