Columbiaville — Ready to relax after the stress of the holidays, and with eager grandparents offering to take the kids, my husband and I rented a tiny house near Lapeer for two nights. The unease began to set in as soon as we exited the highway, the houses grew farther apart and the roads diverged. There were no passing cars, headlights, tail lights, or sirens, just the occasional jolt of a pothole and a pair of deer eyes lurking on the side of the road, ready to jump at any time. 

Once we entered the tiny house community, it immediately felt like another light had been switched off. Total blackness, apart from the occasional street sign for tiny houses with names like “Judith,” “Elsa,” and “Reine.” About a half mile into the frozen woods, we reached our destination, “Sonny.”

We opened the door to a very clean, fresh, 200-square-foot tiny cabin revealing a mini European style kitchen decorated with a substantial knife collection and a bright red Dial M for Murder-style phone. While our accommodations felt extremely cozy and provided everything we could possibly need, including a small bathroom with a shower, I was a little freaked out at the prospect of being at least 20 minutes from the closest hospital, and I still couldn’t figure out why it was so dark and quiet. How long would police take to arrive if a serial killer lurked in the woods? 

But the scariest object of all sat on the table next to the emergency lantern: a cellphone lockbox.

Dare we? We threw our phones in, popped a bottle of wine, and the evening passed, interrupted by the oddly rhythmic sound of an owl. A little paranoid, I thought they might be pumping in nature sounds. 

The next morning, our tiny house was surrounded by hoof prints from deer, raccoon, and maybe a wolf. It was much less scary in the daylight, and I felt some relief we had survived the first night. 

The bustling town of Lapeer awaited just 20 minutes away, and, according to my freshly retrieved iPhone, I could even grab a Starbucks. Lapeer is a small community, originally settled by lumberers and railroad workers, with a population around 9,000.

At a local diner for breakfast, we were the only foreign vehicle (and sedan) among the sea of Chevy trucks in the parking lot. After a 5,000-calorie breakfast we decided to explore the nature trails around the tiny house. I finally felt the sense of zen and relaxation that a winter retreat provides.

And in that moment of clarity, we realized we had met our goal of disconnecting and finding some solace. We talked about getting takeout at our favorite Thai restaurant and watching a movie without the children in our quiet house and king-sized bed. The decision was made. We felt relieved, as we quickly loaded the car and set out, avoiding the anxiety of another dark night in the woods. 

We realized we didn’t have to go to a tiny house in the woods to enjoy each other. A winter retreat reminds you how much you enjoy what’s right in front of you every day—the comfort of your own home and family.

Perhaps we just need to install a cellphone lockbox at home.

Anna Hoffman is a hockey mom of three living in Ann Arbor. Follow her on X @shoesonplease.