A particular kind of quiet settles in when the road stretches endlessly ahead. The horizon is painted in hues of gold and rose. The trees, a cacophony of green, wave as I pass them by. In those small moments, I come to life against the hum of the tires and a blurred tapestry of motion.
I’ve been moving for as long as I can remember. Travel was the rhythm of my childhood, between family road trips, cross-country moves, and long days in the van watching the backs of my parents’ heads. I learned to make friends anywhere, live with little, and feel fulfilled. The chaos of constant change never hit me, it always felt natural, even comforting.
So, when I bought a van at 19, it didn’t feel like a bold turn into a new chapter. It felt like returning home.
My dad and I built it together in the summer and fall of 2023. It took work, but we figured it out with time, elbow grease, and much trial and error. We spent those days beaded with sweat, cutting wood, wiring lights, installing cabinets, and making memories together under the buzzing light of the garage. We were creating something I didn’t even know I needed: a space that was entirely mine, mobile, and rooted in care.
That fall, I hit the road to seek adventure. Between endless climbing routes, traversing golden deserts, and plunges in alpine lakes that took my breath away, I had no trouble finding the thrills I’d hoped for. Today, I wake up in a new place more often than not; on any given day, I could be along a coastal cliff or dusty dirt road.
Over time, I realized this life isn’t only about excitement. My newfound independence taught me how to live on my terms, slow down, and stay grounded, even while moving, all through my little (but critical) rituals. They start when the sunrise streams through my van windows. I peel myself from the bed, swing open the van door, and stretch at dawn. These aren’t big, impressive movements; they’re quiet, often unnoticed in my solitude. But they remind me that, in constant motion, I can still grow roots.
On long driving days, I settle into a similar rhythm when the road stretches ahead for hours. I cue up a playlist that matches the mood, crack a window, and watch the world pass by on the silver screen of my windshield. These landscapes are more than scenery; they shape my moods, rhythms, and sense of self. Simply paying attention to the planet’s contours and crevices has become a ritual in itself. It’s not always exciting, but it feels real. It feels like life.
And then there’s the community. The strangers who become friends at trailheads and gas stations. The shared meals and late-night chats. The quiet understanding between people who choose this life, even when it’s hard. These moments remind me I’m never really alone out here.
This lifestyle isn’t perfect. There are cold mornings, flat tires, and days when I question everything. But there’s freedom, growth, and deep joy in the smallest things; a good song, a sun-warmed rock, a moment of clarity in the middle of nowhere.
Presence is a practice. It’s not something that happens when the conditions are right, but I’d choose it again and again. Through my rituals, connection, and following wherever the road leads, I’ve found a way to feel deeply, wildly awake for every part of the journey.
