We didn’t fucking choose this.
We didn’t wake up one day and say, “You know what sounds fun? Losing everything. Burning it all down. Living out of an RV while our bodies unravel from trauma and our nervous systems scream for rest.”
No. This wasn’t some spiritual retreat. This wasn’t a curated van life fantasy with Pinterest sunsets and clean bathrooms. This was collapse. This was the death of everything we were told would keep us safe.
This was survival after being bled dry by a world that demanded our silence, our labor, our masks.
But when it all came crashing down, when there was no white picket fence, no miracle check, no backup plan…
We chose ourselves.
We chose the raw truth over performative wellness. We chose stillness over hustle. We chose each other when no one else stayed. We chose the fucking ground because there was nowhere left to fall.
People love to romanticize this kind of narrative. “Wow, you’re so brave!” or “Wow, you’re so resilient!” they say, from the comfort of their stable homes and predictable lives, like it’s a compliment. Like our survival is proof the system works. Like our capacity to endure makes the suffering acceptable.
But this isn’t bravery. And this isn’t resilience.This is refusal. Refusal to betray our own souls. Refusal to keep grinding ourselves into dust to make other people comfortable.
This life?
It’s not cute.
It’s not marketable.
It’s blood and bone.
It’s sensory overload in a grocery store parking lot.
It’s crying on the floor because you can’t find a water refill station and you’re too tired to care.
It’s choosing one more fucking time to not give up.
This path chose us.
But we chose what mattered: truth. sovereignty. each other.
And maybe that means we lose the safety nets.
Maybe that means we walk alone sometimes.
But we are not apologizing for saving our own lives.
This world tried to flatten us.
Tried to tell us we were too much, too broken, too sensitive.
But we are still here.
Still sacred.
Still fucking choosing.