Crystals in the Concrete

"It is in the shelter of each other that the people live."

— Irish proverb

I never set out to be a landlord. I was just trying to survive. Someday I'll write that whole story—the divorce, the panic, the scrambling to keep my house and feed my son. For now, this is what I've learned about stewarding a home when you have an ADU.

When they were pouring the concrete for my cottage behind my house in 2020, my son and I dropped tiny crystals into the foundation. Each one carried a wish for whoever would live there: may they be happy, may they be financially stable, may they have sweet dreams every night, may they be a perfect fit for us–and us for them. We stood there together in the dirt and the noise and the chaos of construction, blessing a home for someone we hadn't met yet.

In those moments of wishing goodness for someone we hadn’t met yet, I realized something that no one had ever quite articulated to me before. Being a landlord is fundamentally about power. You hold something someone else needs—shelter, stability, a sense of safety. And how you hold that power matters. You can grip it tightly and extract from it and optimize every dollar. Or you can hold it gently, with care and intention. 

I chose care.

People can feel intention. They can feel whether a space was created with care or merely built to extract value, and that feeling shapes how they treat the space in return. So when I built my cottage, I didn't build A Rental. I built a home. Not extravagant, just thoughtful. A place I could imagine living in myself one day if I wanted to.

When I was building it, I was careful about everything. I picked out the tiles for the bathroom floor to match the crystal sink. I made sure there was a built-in space in the shower wall for soap and shampoo. The flooring, the refrigerator—I hand-picked everything so that it would be beautiful and neutral enough that whoever lives there could put their own style on it. Beauty and care matter to me–a lot.  I want everything I do to be thoughtful, and this was no exception.  

That same intention shows up in how I think about pricing. I don't believe the highest price the market will bear is always the right price. Markets don't account for nervous systems. Or stability. Or the cost of constant turnover. If you have a good tenant, there's no inherent need to keep raising the rent just because you can. Constant increases don't invite longevity—they invite churn.  So  before setting the price for rent, I asked myself some honest questions: What is this really worth? What would I pay for this space, in this neighborhood? And most importantly, how does that number land in my body? When the price felt fair in my body, I knew I had the number, and that became the rent I requested.

I try to be thoughtful and caring for my tenants.  Every year on my tenant's move-in anniversary, I give her a formal notice of no rent increase for the coming year. This way she has a legal document that states this, and there are no surprises for her. Her feelings of safety and security matter to me. She agreed to pay this price every month when she moved in, I know she can afford it, and that feels right to me. I also know I will only raise rent if the city's property taxes increase, because that feels fair, thoughtful and ethical to me.

Ease is a guiding principle in nearly every decision I make as a landlord. I ask myself, over and over: what creates the most ease over time? Not just today—over years.

This is one reason why I don't furnish the unit. Fully furnished rentals sound super convenient, but they come with hidden labor. When something breaks, you have to fix it. When something wears out, you have to replace it. If my value is ease, then dealing with this constantly does not serve me.  This is also why I don’t do Air B&B–it’s a lot of constant work to clean and repair a space, and I just don’t want to do that   So, tenants bring their own things, settle in, and make the space theirs.

I also keep the utilities separate. My cottage is truly its own structure—no shared walls, no shared systems—and I believe the utilities should be, too. While I cover trash and the gardener, everything else is theirs.  This feels both fair (I want to make sure that the grounds are beautiful) and simple (I don't have to figure out who paid which utility come tax time).     

Upkeep of the space is another form of respect–both to myself, my property, and my tenant. Things break. Things wear out. Homes age. I understand that.  When something needs attention, I handle it promptly and responsibly. 

For example, I've always tried not to use pesticides on my property so that all the little beings could feel safe here. But one time my first tenant had a crazy ant issue—and I mean A LOT of ants. I had to make the decision to bring in a professional exterminator because I didn't want to lose him as a tenant. His happiness and comfort were at stake, and I can't force my judgment calls on the people who live in the cottage. Sometimes being a good landlord means choosing your tenant's wellbeing over your own preferences.

This is also why I carry a home warranty. I have one for the cottage and one for my main house. Because I rent the cottage and live in the home, the cottage warranty is a tax write-off; the main house one isn't, and it's more expensive. I comparison-shop because coverage varies. For me, a home warranty is about removing any sort of panic on my part from the equation. When something inevitably breaks, there's already a plan and path forward. Again: ease.

I also think communication is a form of maintenance. If there's an issue in the neighborhood—a theft, construction, anything that affects safety or access—I let my tenant know. She's not just a renter; she's my neighbor, and I want her to feel like I’m looking out for her–because I am. Information is absolutely a form of respect–and even if you own a duplex or apartment building you might consider doing this, as well.  I believe people deserve to know what affects their lives, and if you know, share.

When I bought my first house, the prior owners cleaned it thoroughly and left me a very small care package. It was such a delight to open. I want everyone who moves into one of my spaces to feel the excitement and support of a new start, like they made me feel. Moving is vulnerable. Beginning again is tender. So when someone moves in, I mark the moment. I wrap toilet paper, paper towels, and an all-purpose cleaner, tie a big bow around it, and include a handwritten card that says, Welcome home. I want people to feel, from the very first moment, that this isn't just a place they're occupying. It's their home.

I choose tenants with the same ethic of care that I have everywhere else. Clear screening protects everyone involved. I interview to get a vibe check.  I do a credit check. I set expectations clearly and early. I use a standard lease: one year, then month-to-month. Clarity up front prevents resentment later.

And once they're settled, I believe deeply in respectfully leaving people alone. Once someone lives in the space, it's their home. I don't hover. I don't drop by. I don't insert myself unless there's a reason to. Clear boundaries protect privacy, and privacy is part of what makes a place feel safe.

I also acknowledge birthdays. A small bouquet of flowers, or a gift card, and a handwritten note. Nothing elaborate, just a reminder that they're seen and appreciated. The first time I gave my current tenant flowers for her birthday, I wasn't sure how it would land—was it too much? But she texted me right away: "thank you for my flowers!!!!!" All those exclamation marks. It made me super happy, and not just because she liked them. Here's the truth: I'm genuinely grateful for my tenants. Because they have paid correctly and on time every single month, I've been able to keep my house and stay in this neighborhood, which means my son gets to stay in his school district—the whole reason I bought this house in the first place.  My tenants are not money-making machines—they're people who have helped me build a life. I want to treat them that way.

This may be surprising, given my love of animals, but I don't allow pets in my cottage. I love animals—deeply—but for this particular space, it's a no. You don't need to justify your boundaries, and clarity is kindness.  

I've had two tenants, total. The first stayed until he decided to move to England for his music career. When he left, he hand-chose the second tenant. Apparently many of his friends wanted the space, and he chose her as the best fit. I interviewed her, ran her credit, did all the things, and went with her. She's a dream. The fact that my first tenant cared enough about the space to carefully select who came next says everything about what we created together.

Almost every decision I make as a landlord comes back to the same question: does this create ease—for me, and for the person who lives here? When both people feel settled, respected, and clear, very little else needs to be managed.

I want people to stay. I want them to feel at home. I want to feel at home in my own life. So I built a space with care, priced it fairly, maintained it attentively, communicated openly, respected privacy, and treated the person who lives there like a trusted, appreciated adult—because most people rise to the level of trust they're given.

Maybe no one told you that you could do it this way. Maybe you thought being a landlord meant maximizing profit or protecting yourself from risk at all costs. But there's another way. You can hold power gently. You can steward a space with intention. You can treat tenants like the valued people they are.

This is all my opinion, of course. But it's worked beautifully for me.

I am grateful.