Table of Contents
Key Takeaways
Early difficulties in my young adult life have shaped me to be a determined and resilient individual. These experiences have provided a positive framework for overcoming challenges and a drive to find meaningful solutions.
I discovered my Idaho roots after moving to Boise in 2010. After college I left for several years, then returned in 2019 to find that housing prices had skyrocketed, and the city was facing an identity crisis.
The struggle continued, as I found the scarce housing that was available wasn’t suited for sensitive people, despite being often advertised as “luxurious”.
Facing the problem of housing affordability in Boise, I founded Alley Homes, a mission-driven business aimed at providing affordable and dignified housing options, primarily by helping homeowners build accessory dwelling units (ADUs).
Alley Homes aims to provide comfort and stability for both current and future generations of Idahoans, and to be a solution in the face of the city's housing crisis.
Introduction
I love Idaho, and am proud to call it home.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Eric Morrison. I’m not technically an Idaho native, but my father is. His side of the family traces their roots back to the early pioneers, who emigrated from England. Though I didn’t grow up here, as soon as I moved to Boise for college, I knew it was a special place.
After my college years, I couldn’t resist the urge to see the world, so the next ten years were filled with journeying and exploration, from New York to San Diego, and several stops in between. During this time I gained a footing on my career and personal development, but started to lose a sense of home, meaning, and belonging.
That's why I returned to Boise in 2019, but what I found was not the same place as when I left. Housing prices had already skyrocketed, and since then they've gone stratospheric. New developments had popped up—mostly big, blocky apartment buildings in places that used to be fields or quiet neighborhoods. And there was a growing sense of unease, as if Boise was having an identity crisis in the midst of the rapidly changing times.
Beyond the societal impacts of a rising cost of living, I was facing a personal panic. Those big apartment buildings aren’t just an eye sore, but for me as a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP), they’re a nightmare. When I was a student attending Boise State University (BSU), maybe I was just lucky, but I managed to find suitable housing that was quiet, dignified, and affordable. Boy, has that story changed. It seems like your only options now are overpriced 3-bedroom single-family homes, “luxury” apartment buildings, or sharing a basement with roommates.
My first three years back in Boise were a mix of the latter two. Despite having a good job and reasonable financial order, I just couldn’t land an apartment that didn’t make me feel stressed. More than the HSP impact, I had worked hard for years to become financially stable and independent. It felt like no matter how much progress I made, the dream of owning property or not sharing walls with neighbors was still as far away as when I finished school. Maybe it was spending enough time in those cubed crucibles that eventually revealed the precious metal, but in facing the problem I found a solution.
Alley Homes is both a business and a vision for Boise’s housing future. Intensely mission- and story-driven, it’s an attempt to face down an enormous problem, and say, “We can’t fix it all at once, but we can start here.” What comes next is up to our auspicious employees, customers, vendors, and community.
We want both current and next generation Idahoans to take comfort—to know that whether putting roots down or adapting in today's economy, they won't have to end up in a tent or shared apartment with three strangers.
My Early Years
I mentioned I’m an HSP, or Highly Sensitive Person. It sounds like a disorder, but it’s actually a natural phenomenon found across the mammalian world. Studies have shown that about 1 in 5 of us, humans and animals alike, have nervous systems wired a bit differently, so that they filter out less information, and therefore process more of the world around them. This is likely adaptive, as it would mean every group of social creatures has one or two individuals who act as an early “alert system” to danger. Or to pick up on signals no one else is in tune with to find better sources of food or shelter.
In today’s world being a highly sensitive person seems like more of a burden than a gift. I certainly felt that way as a child. Growing up in a large family of six siblings, two parents, and three dogs, I was always overstimulated. This is all in retrospect, because I wouldn’t learn about my sensitivity until my late twenties. But as a child and teen, I was always finding ways to retreat from the chaos and the noise.
It wasn’t all downsides, though. I have some very unique and special memories of places I’d visited, seen, or explored in, where I felt an overwhelming sense of awe and wonder. Part of being highly in-tune with my environment meant I could see a realm beyond the normal, and feel the euphoric possibilities.
This was an underdeveloped gift, to say the least, that would take a lifetime to recognize and harness. Unfortunately in a world not designed for sensitive creatures, I ended up mostly vulnerable to the way cities and housing are planned, designed, and constructed in the modern western world.
Boise: Part 1
I got my first break from that vulnerability my first year at Boise State University in 2010, back when housing was still affordable. I rented a top floor 2-bedroom apartment just off of campus. It was part of a complex, but felt very private. The building was well insulated, and I had no shared walls—meaning I couldn’t hear my neighbors, and they couldn’t hear me. As such, I was free to listen to music, watch and edit videos, have friends over, and enjoy regular quality sleep.
That apartment was a pivotal moment in my development. I mean that literally. I was still in my mid-20’s—a bit late for starting college due to spending two years teaching in Mexico after high school—but young enough that my brain was still undergoing a crucial transformation. Research shows that chronic stress during this period has lifelong impacts, not least of which is inhibiting the development of the prefrontal cortex. Because I was living somewhere for the first time in my life that suited my nervous system, I was finally free of anxiety, which unlocked dimensions I had never known existed. For the first time I was genuinely happy. I was able to take better care of myself. I was more productive. I was more creative. I had hope and zeal for the future, and could feel my brain and cognition changing. All because I had a decent place to live.
NYC
As we tend to do when life is going well, we take it for granted. The burst of energy Boise and my college experience gave me made me feel invincible, I suppose. And I wanted a more exciting life in a bigger city. In the biggest city.
I got very lucky and had an opportunity to pursue my career goals in marketing and communication while working for a company that I greatly admired and respected—and that happened to be located in New York City. I was even more fortunate that, despite the housing rat race of the Big Apple, I managed to rent an affordable and quiet apartment, located in a peaceful neighborhood, in the subdued borough of Queens.
What made the place so special was that it wasn’t a unit in a building, but a stand-alone garage converted into a studio apartment. It was like having my own little house, without any shared walls or people walking above or below me. It was exactly what I needed to calm my nerves in an otherwise overstimulating metro environment. It was my sanctuary—a retreat from the organized chaos and energy of big city life.
My time in New York was wonderful, but I recognize that it’s only because of my unique housing situation. The experience would have otherwise been a stressful disaster. It showed me that even highly sensitive individuals like myself can live comfortably and contentedly even in an imperfect environment, if we have an adequate living space.
The Midwest
Alas, the cost of living impacted my student loan payments when they started and my nerves were shot. The glamor of the city had worn off and it was time to move on.
I love my parents, but moving in with them at 32 was not a proposition I was enthusiastic about. It wasn’t even where I had grown up, as they had moved to Kansas City while I was in college. Living rent-free with them though allowed me to take the risk of starting a freelance business. This was 2015, the beginning of companies’ embrace of social media, so the timing was fortunate as a guy who could produce and edit videos.
My less than desirable circumstances allowed me to try a very desirable venture I wanted. Every limitation we have comes with an equal and opposite strength, if we allow ourselves to see it. My heightened sensitivity and ill-fitting family environment meant working from home wasn’t going to be an option. But that same sensitivity, combined with my creativity, turned out to make me quite resourceful.
I got the idea of renting an art studio from a client I’d made a video for. He was a painter who rented a small space to work from when he wasn’t at his 9-5 job. I thought, “That's brilliant.” So I found a 10’x10’ studio for $120/month. I asked the owner if I could convert the open-ceiling, cement-floor cube into an enclosed office and video editing suite. She said, “Sure, as long as you don’t expect to get any of it back when you leave.” So I got to renovating—with the help of a Home Depot credit card.
I built a comfortable work space that doubled as a place to retreat from my parents’ house. My video work wasn’t paying the bills yet, but I still longed for privacy. So I bought a sleeper couch and hid my bedding underneath. During the day I brought clients over and at night I was catching Z’s in a quirky office in an old industrial building in downtown Kansas City.
But you know what? It worked. The circumstance gave me enough energy to keep pressing forward and the finances for better housing opportunities.
Well, somewhat better. Living alone again, I finally had to confront the monster I’d somehow avoided. The monster of multi-family housing. My luck had run out. No more peaceful college apartments. No more converted garages. Everything available and affordable was ill suited for an HSP. Crowded, noisy, poorly laid out… like they were cages and renters were the lab rats. It wasn’t just Kansas City. When I was recruited by a reputable marketing agency in Dallas, I found more of the same housing difficulties. Every metro had serious, universal housing issues.
San Diego
My career began to blossom in 2017. The Dallas agency had led to another opportunity the following year in southern California. I had ambitions to work in the tech scene, so without hesitating I packed up and moved to San Diego. I knew it would be more expensive, and that finding a place to live would be a struggle. But I was promised an opportunity as a video producer—and a partner—in an exciting business venture.
I wound up deceived, broke, and homeless—sleeping in a tent in a stranger’s backyard.
Okay, he wasn’t a complete stranger, but barely an acquaintance I’d met just weeks prior. He didn’t have a lot of space, but offered me his spare bedroom—if I could do something about the floor-to-ceiling garbage, clothes, and furniture. I learned he had a hoarding disorder. But he had a kind heart, and was happy to offer what he could. So the tent arrangement worked fine, until I could come up with a better plan for the winter.
In the meantime, I had enough stability to find that coveted tech job. Once I was employed and had regained my footing, I was in the position to take a second look at my living situation. I wasn’t ready to commit to a $1,800/mo 1-bedroom apartment, so my now friend/landlord and I brainstormed and worked out a deal. I could take advantage of my construction experience to build my own “tiny house” in lieu of the tent. I would keep my space and privacy, and in exchange, I would pay a few hundred bucks in rent, help clean around the house, and take his dogs for regular walks.
The arrangement worked out better than either of us expected. I was able to construct a decent looking shelter for under $6,000 (courtesy, once again, of the Home Depot), and before long I was looking and feeling like a normal human again.
Unfortunately, due to my haste and skipping the whole permitting process, I found out about six months later with a note on the door from the city inspector that unpermitted backyard buildings, while fine as tool sheds, are not allowed for human occupancy. I was given fifteen days to disconnect the utilities and move out.
So it was back to couch surfing. About then I realized Southern California wasn’t the place for me after all. Frankly it was driving me past the point of sanity with its cost of living, population density, and relentless noise of freeway traffic. I just had to get out.
I took my savings, résumé, and “character building” experience back to Boise where I was ready to settle down and call it home. It was the best move of my life.
Boise: Part 2
Settling back in Boise was more of a crash landing. I had just enough savings to rent a bedroom for a few months and cover groceries while searching for a new job. I’m forever grateful for my housemate, who was subletting under the radar. As such, he didn’t ask too many questions; like, “What do you do for work?” or “What’s your verifiable monthly income?”
I managed to get on my feet again, and eventually found myself apartment hunting. I moved into a nice looking complex right on the green belt, with a modern facade and attractive interior. As the saying goes, looks can be deceiving.
Soapstone countertops, advertised as “luxurious”, are nice if you live in a single family home. But in an apartment they’re a sonic nightmare. Because of basic physics, their density means they transmit sound without resistance—straight through the countertop, the wall, and out the other side into the adjacent unit. Every time someone put down a mug or bowl, it was as audible as if it were in my own kitchen. When the neighbors would slam their drawers and cabinets, the sound was a shot of adrenaline straight through my spine. People walked up the stairs, and my whole couch would vibrate with the floor. Living there was like being assaulted from all sides, at all hours of the day.
But hey, at least it was pretty?
It was more of the same at my next apartment. I came to realize this is the world renters live in. Property managers offer their sympathy, but their hands are tied by corporate owners and construction companies who build these quick, cheap units for money over comfort. They don’t care about you as long as there’s another applicant in the queue.
Am I crazy, or is there something deeply wrong with this picture? Why aren’t building owners held accountable for the misery they cause tenants for designing and constructing these cheap, undignified, pretentious adulterations?
One might be tempted to ask why renters don’t just leave and find something better. Sadly, there is no better. At least within most price ranges and desirable locations.
Surely we can do better as a civilization.
Discovering Passion
In 2021, news started going around about a little company called Boxabl from Las Vegas. They had a factory-built 375 square foot residential dwelling that could be shipped anywhere in the continental US for $50,000. It generated a lot of buzz, and certainly caught my attention. Remembering my New York garage, which was about the same size, I thought these little affordable and mass-produced “Casitas” could be a huge part of the solution to my, and other, renters’ woes. If only a fraction of homeowners could afford an “Accessory Dwelling Unit”, or ADU, as I would learn they’re properly called, there would be more housing, which could drive the costs down in the long-term, and offer solace and comfort for renters immediately. And those homeowners could recoup the costs, and eventually earn passive income, while having a place to house family, visitors, and aging parents.
As a forward-thinking person, I could see that Boxabl—and the myriad other companies now getting into the prefab ADU space—could end up becoming a significant player in residential development in the years to come. When you look at trends in manufacturing, AI, and robotics, it’s hard to not conclude that factory-built dwellings have the potential to disrupt the entire industry.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized these prefab companies were only solving part of the problem. The harder part was actually installing them, especially at any reasonable scale.
Boise and the surrounding metros are unique in that our zoning codes allow for the development of ADUs, putting us a step ahead of most of the country. But there’s still planning and permitting, foundation work, utility hookup, landscaping, and all the rest. I saw what was coming, but I also saw the huge obstacles. To rehash the famous John Adams quote, “Every problem is an opportunity in disguise.”
I thought, man, that would be a great business. If you focused on the sales, customer service, planning, and installation side of these manufactured ADUs, you’d be able to get more of them on the ground while creating a lot of value.
I’ve had a lot of business ideas over the years—most of which turned out to be infeasible at best, or junk at worst. But this one was different. It was the first idea that was sticky. The longer I thought about it and the more I slept on it, the better it got. I just couldn’t let it go.
At this point in my career I had been promoted to Director and was managing a team and running my own department. It was incredibly fulfilling, and I knew in some capacity there was a future for me in leadership. However, doubts crept in about whether I’d enjoy a long-term career in marketing—just for the sake of marketing.
I took the “sticky” idea as a signal. Maybe I shouldn’t get too comfortable; if there were ever a moment to pivot, this was it.
Building the Business
I didn’t know how I would do it, or if I would have even a slim chance at success. I just knew I had to try. This was my thing. I would even dare say it was my calling.
But where to begin? I’m the same as most people, just getting by. No life savings or 401K to cash out. No rich uncle. No safety net. Just my job and my student debt.
I finally had an insight. “Okay Eric, you can play to your strengths.” Over the years I’d developed quite a knack for not just marketing and communication, but operations and leadership. Maybe I could convince an investor to help me buy a small construction company. Then I could convert it to building ADUs, and we’d be off to the races.
Thankfully I was advised against that strategy by multiple people, for various reasons. But it was a crucial starting point. By taking it seriously I wrote a 40-page business plan and did my research. That gave me a lot more courage to take the next step. And then the next one.
I was finally convinced that an acquisition was a dead end, and that I would need to form a startup. So I listened to my advisors and faced the anxiety of starting a business, one small step at a time. I told myself, if I end up hitting a wall, then so be it. I have to at least keep moving until I get to that point.
As it turns out, that point never came. Every step I took seemed to result in more pathways. More progress toward something that became more real as I pressed on.
It’s been said you have to be willing to be a fool in order to advance at anything new. I definitely made a fool of myself cold-emailing investors, asking for a hefty check to launch my idea. But it turns out people with money don’t invest in ideas. One of those emails was to an acquaintance and a local Boise business owner who took pity on my attempts, and recommended I get in touch with his colleague. That colleague then introduced me to a pitch competition at the Boise State Venture College called Hacking for Homebuilding. It would be an opportunity to get free mentorship, work on my pitch and early business development, and a chance to win a grand prize of $10,000.
It felt nearly impossible. I thought my chances were laughably small. Most of the competing companies were actual companies, working on technological solutions. I was just a guy with an idea for a construction company. But I showed up anyway. And I kept putting one foot in front of the other.
The college and mentors provided a lot of helpful resources, and with their guidance, I formed my story into a proper pitch deck with numbers, graphs, and the whole works. I would have embarrassed myself in front of the judges pretty badly if I’d made my pitch without the structure they helped me lay out. I suppose I did alright in the end, because the judges were compelled to advance Alley Homes to the finals. When I had my shot at the main event at Boise Entrepreneur Week, I took home first place, and that big check.
It was a victory, but I knew it didn’t ultimately mean anything other than validation and a reassuring step forward. No investor came up to me afterward offering to write that 7-figure check. I got a few handshakes and business cards. But most importantly I had a renewed vigor and sense that the community is responding well; that this is something Boise really needs.
I had half a dozen conversations with investors in the following weeks. They all loved the idea, but told me frankly, “Come and talk to us when you’re making money.” That’s fair. But it put me in a catch-22 familiar to all entrepreneurs. How do I quit my job and pay my bills to start a business that won’t make money for several months or years?
The startup community introduced me to the concept of the “MVP” or Minimum Viable Product. The idea is to find the smallest thing you can do to generate revenue, and test out the idea. I knew I couldn’t go get a contractor’s license, quit my job, and start building houses. But I could lean on my strengths as a marketer, communicator, organizer, and leader. If I could find the partners to do the actual work—namely architects and contractors—I could build a website and funnel leads, create a system, and walk homeowners through the design and permitting process. Once they were ready to build, I could hand them off to a general contractor.
It all came together with a phone call from a local home builder who said they’d be happy to work with me. They would simply pay me a commission for bringing them ADU jobs. With that money I could keep marketing and bringing in more customers. Here was my MVP.
So I got to work. After weeks and months of planning, organizing, researching and collaborating, Alley Homes, LLC is now a properly formed business. The company's website is launched, our architect partners are providing ADU plans, the marketing materials are hot off the press, and we’re ready to change homeowners’ and renters’ lives.
Vision for the Future
My struggles in finding adequate housing are not unique to me. Sure, I have a heightened awareness of the environment, and a low-threshold nervous system. But everyone is affected at some level by where, and how, they live. If they’re not consciously aware of it, they certainly can’t ignore the increasing rent and fewer options on the market from a dwindling housing supply.
ADUs are a significant, but incomplete solution to our housing crisis. In his book The American Alley, Thomas Dougherty points out a statistic from AARP that 28% of the American population is single people living alone, yet almost 90% of the nation’s residential units are two or more bedrooms. “Accessory dwelling units,” he adds, “were highlighted as one of the greatest potential resources to address the need for smaller residential structures.”
Many architects and developers agree we need fewer apartment skyscrapers and suburban McMansions, and more ADUs, duplexes, fourplexes, and bungalow courts. This “human scale” development has been coined the missing middle. While developers are out there constructing commercial properties wrapped in a “homey” facade, looking for the biggest bang-for-their-buck, the people who are stuck living in these units are frankly suffering with no way out.
That’s what Alley Homes is out to change.
Our mission isn’t just to build ADUs, but to lead the way in conscious development. How many people are missing out on spending time with their friends or developing their careers because they're fatigued from the constant stress of living above or below noisy neighbors?
And is it the neighbors’ fault? Why should people have to tip-toe around their home, because the building’s developer was too cheap to add the proper sound insulation? I don't think we’re pointing fingers in the right direction.
As the saying goes, for every finger you point, there are four pointing back at you. I believe the only way to change the status quo is to set the example—and lead by doing. Once enough people see the value in this new paradigm, they will demand it, and developers will jump on the virtue bandwagon.
While we’re talking about the future, I see a convergence of technologies, not just in robotic manufacturing, but in robotic driving. Imagine when the majority of people ditch their expensive and clunky personal vehicles in favor of a 24/7 subscription robo-taxi service once cars become fully autonomous. You won’t need your garage anymore. And garages can be converted into income-generating apartments.
For Boiseans, garages are often detached and tucked behind the main house in the alleyway. This is significant because most cities in the US got rid of their alleys after the wide implementation of zoning codes in the early 20th century. Not Boise. We recognized the preciousness of this resource and we didn’t follow the crowd.
Our ancestors were leaders, and I believe if they were around today, they would want us to do the same. We can build not just one-off alley ADUs, but we could work together to develop entire alley systems with garden walls and landscaping like they do in Europe. The value these residential areas create is immeasurable over time.
Better, beautiful, more affordable, more sustainable, and economically productive housing for all Boiseans? I think it’s a no-brainer.
Going through momentary homelessness and a months-long survival stint taught me a lot. It taught me that I’m a lot stronger than I thought I was. It also taught me that there are so many people who are a lot stronger than me, persevering every day in the face of a bleak and worsening housing crisis.
Last summer (2022) when my lease was up at my last apartment, I finally found an ADU for rent. When I saw the listing on Zillow it didn’t mention anything about an ADU, but I knew what it was immediately. Without hesitating I jumped on it, booked a viewing, and put in an application. I was lucky to have been the first. Without this rare window of opportunity it would have been 12 more months in another miserable place.
So that’s where I am today; paying $1,200/mo for a 350 square foot alley ADU without central heating or AC. And you know what? It is such a relief. I am so happy to be living here. I’m sleeping so much better. I’m in a way better mood. I have so much more energy. It’s like a whole new life has been zapped into me. For the first time in nearly a decade, I have a comfortable, content living space. It doesn’t matter that it’s not “luxurious”. It matters that it’s quiet and offers privacy. While still being in an intimate neighborhood with a real sense of community. I think every single renter, grandparent, or grown child living at home needs the opportunity to live in an ADU.
I don’t say this flippantly or naively: I believe we can solve Boise’s housing crisis with ADUs alone. We’ll need literally thousands of them, but we have the space, we have the need, and we have the will.
So if you’re a Boisean reading this and you think you might want to build an ADU, for rental income or to house your mother-in-law, there are no bad reasons to build one. Let’s get in touch and build your dream together.
To a better, more purposeful, and quieter future.