When Plan A Becomes Plan Y

We were this close to settling into a perfectly normal life.

Family nearby. Baby on the way. Apartment lined up. Everything was falling into place—until it didn’t.

What started as a simple search for a rental turned into one closed door after another… until we found ourselves staring at a living room with a literal shared door to an adult store.

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We were living in Pennsylvania near where I grew up, surrounded by family, expecting our first baby, and settling into what most people would call a very normal life. We were excited for “Little Skittle” to join the family and life was… familiar. Safe. Comfortable.

Until our lease came up for renewal—and the price went up like a weather balloon in a windstorm.

We looked everywhere. I mean everywhere. We were convinced we needed to stay close to family as we welcomed our first baby into the world. Support, free babysitting, new grandmothers dying to take the baby so we could take a nap? Yes, please.

We kept praying, “Lord, we know you have us here—help us find a place.” But nothing worked out. I don’t mean “meh, it’s not ideal.” I mean nothing worked out. Cockroaches, exploding washing machines, some shady business people…

Then came the last straw: the final rental we toured was… great. Totally fine. Except for the adult store that was scheduled to move in next door—with a door that opened right into the living room.

Yes. You read that correctly. A literal shared door that didn’t even have a lock.

We stood there, blinking. Pretty sure that was our burning bush—just with worse signage. I think I actually said out loud, “Okay Lord. I give up.”

And that’s when we realized: our prayers had been, “We know you have us here,” when they should’ve been, “Lord, where do you have us?”

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From “Maybe Someday” to “Right Now”

We always figured Alaska was a “someday” dream. You know—five, ten years out. After we nailed down the parenting thing. After diapers. Maybe after we became independently wealthy and could buy 100 acres, a bush plane, and a mini farm full of animals that all behaved like well-trained Labradors.

But suddenly, it didn’t feel like “someday” anymore. It felt like now.

So we took a deep breath, left the comfort of what we knew—family, community, church, familiar roads—and decided to follow God’s call into the unknown. Literally. With a newborn.

Three months after “Little Skittle” was born, we packed up everything we owned and hit the road.

By “road,” I mean we drove to Alaska. Yes. From Pennsylvania. With a baby. It was an adventure and thankfully smooth with some forethought and planning.

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Renting, Researching, and… Reality

We made it to Alaska thanks to a caravan of real MVPs—my dad, brother, my in-laws, and an uncle who helped us make the drive north.

We rented first so we could scout the area and figure out where to put down roots. I’d lived in Alaska before—back in 2013—but this wasn’t a solo adventure. This was moving my family. Everything felt bigger. Heavier. More real.

From that year in Alaska, I had a few close friends nearby, which helped soften the landing. But still—there we were. A young couple with a 3-month-old, standing at the edge of a brand-new life.

I’ve always been someone who likes to know where we’re headed. Not every detail, but the general map. I want to know what’s coming up around the bend—and what we’ll do if a bridge is out or a moose blocks the road (literally or figuratively).

So once we were settled, my brain went into motion: What areas made sense? What could we afford? Where could we build something that would last? We looked at homes. Land. Cabins. You name it.

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Buying Land, Building Plans (and Plan Y)

Eventually, we found it: three acres of wild, undeveloped land. No power. No water. Just opportunity, some awesome mountain views… and an excuse to buy a chainsaw.

My planning brain kicked in again—Plan A through Plan Y. And guess which one we landed on?

Yep. Plan Y. For Yurt.

We ran the numbers (I like myself a good spreadsheet). If we bought the shell of the yurt from an Alaskan company, built it ourselves and paid cash, the savings in rent and mortgage could recoup the cost of the yurt in about five years. After that, we could move on and convert it into a short-term rental and start earning some solid cash flow.

It was a plan. It was exciting. It was… reasonable. Until COVID-era inflation walked in and said, “Hold my supply chain.” Our total build cost ballooned by 237% (yes, I calculated it—of course I did). But hey, that’s a story for another time.

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Breaking Ground

We found a local guy with a gravel pit and a bulldozer (as one does in Alaska), and he helped us put in a driveway and clear the front section of the property.

The dream was in motion.

We were stepping into something completely unfamiliar, with little background in construction, no homesteading experience, and a toddler in tow with plans for Skittle #2. But we were all in.

Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t about having all the answers.

It was about being willing to follow the call—even when it meant trading comfort for something harder… and far more worth it.

If you’re curious how it’s going—or what else we got wrong along the way—stick around. Because calling over comfort? It’s a wild ride. And we’re only getting started.