Some mornings I wake up and wonder how the hell we got here.
Not in a regretful way—just in that staring-at-the-ceiling, “what day is it?” kind of way. Coffee goes on. The sun creeps in. My husband still asleep, and I’m just sitting there, aware of the fact that we have no clue where we’ll be sleeping next week.
And not in the “how adventurous!” kind of way people romanticize.
In the ‘we actually don’t know’ kind of way.
We’ve traded certainty for something less defined. We left the old systems behind: the calendars, the paychecks, the “shoulds.” And now we’re out here—living in an RV, boondocking in random patches of land, setting intentions into the quiet, listening for what the earth mirrors back.
There are no life manuals for this.
Nobody tells you how intense it is to build a life from intuition alone. To love someone through meltdowns, through panic attacks, through the disorientation of waking up and not recognizing the landscape. No one talks about how survival mode doesn’t just shut off once you opt out of the system—it follows you, sometimes louder than before.
And yet—we keep going.
Some days it feels like we’re just stringing together moments, hoping they hold. Hoping the Wi-Fi works. Hoping our SNAP balance lasts. Hoping we made the right call by leaving the last place. There are errands to run. Water to find. Laundry. A blog to build. Energy to conserve.
But in between all of that, there are things we couldn’t have planned for.
A blue bracelet hanging in a tree that feels like a message.
The way Jon sings when he’s finally calm.
That one breakfast where the bagels and coffee were actually perfect.
The quiet kind of magic that shows up when you’re so tired you stop performing.
We’re not trying to sell you a dream here. This is the part most people don’t post about—the part where you break down at a Walmart because everything is overstimulating, and the only thing that helps is sitting in the front seat and breathing in unison and taking back our power.
This is what it’s like to live without a map.
Raw. Exposed. Sacred.
Not lost—just feeling our way forward.
We might not know where we’ll be next week.
But we know we’re in it together.
And for now, that’s enough.