It’s a battered old Chevy G20 with patchy blue paint like a cheap dye job grown out at the roots, revealing veins of rusty metal. The sliding door sticks; you gotta yank it with a grunt that echoes through the hollow cargo bay. The back’s gutted—no rows of bench seats, just a mattress on a platform of milk crates stuffed with spare parts, books, some canned soup, and a ratty deck of cards that’s missing the queen of hearts.

I found her in a dirt lot out past Tucson. Paid twelve hundred in sweaty crumpled bills to a guy with nicotine fingers and a cigarette that wagged when he talked. Drove off that same day with a new squeal in the brakes and the taste of freedom crackling down my throat like cheap tequila.

**Mornings******

****

The sun comes early when there are no curtains—when your walls are thin metal and your ceiling is barely a stretch above your head. It pokes through the tinted glass and warms the tangled mess of hair on my pillow. Sometimes I wake with my cheek pressed against the cool side of the van, condensation wetting my skin.

I crack the door. A rush of pine or sage or sea salt air floods in, depending on where I parked last night. Could be a turnout off Highway 1, where the Pacific thrums against rocks like a living creature trying to break through. Could be a Walmart parking lot with its carousel of carts and the low hum of idling RV generators.

I stretch, slip bare feet into battered canvas sneakers, and shuffle out. I usually do a quick check—make sure no one slashed a tire in the night, no ranger left a ticket under my wiper. Then I pop the back, fire up the little camp stove, and watch steam curl off my mug like the ghost of every place I’ve ever been.

**Days******

****

If I’m honest, I don’t keep track of the days anymore. Time feels like a big soft lump of dough, always pressing in on itself, never quite baked into something solid.

Some days I drive. Just…drive. Roll down all the windows, let my hair whip around, let truckers give me two-tone honks when they catch me dancing at the wheel. I hunt for the next pretty overlook, the next spot where the land dips into a quilt of farmland or flares up into orange mesas that seem to breathe in the dusk.

Other days I stay put. Maybe at a free campsite near a river where I can rinse off in frigid water, scrubbing skin gone tacky from sweat and diesel. Maybe at some truck stop with showers you pay a few bucks for, where the tiles are cracked and the mirror’s spotted, but the water pours hot and heavy and washes away the stink of living feral.

My work is piecemeal, like the rest of my life. I do odd gigs online when I can find them—editing, writing clickbait, sometimes transcribing audio that’s so bad it sounds like the ghost of an answering machine. Enough to pay for gas, for bags of oranges from roadside stands, for occasional luxuries like new wiper blades or a six-pack of fancy microbrew.

**Nights******

****

Nights are the best and the worst.

When I’m parked somewhere safe—like a BLM spot miles off the nearest paved road—there’s a hush so deep it rings in my ears. I’ll light a candle in an old Mason jar, set it on the milk crate by my bed, and read until the words swim. Outside, the stars riot across the sky, huge and close, like they might tumble down and smash into my windshield.

Other nights, I’m wedged in beside semis at some neon-lit truck plaza. I lock the doors, wedge a length of wood between the steering wheel and brake pedal, and sleep curled tight with a knife under my pillow. There are sounds: the hiss of air brakes, the low moan of engines idling all night, footsteps crunching gravel. Once, someone tried the handle. I held my breath so long my ribs ached, until whoever it was moved on.

**People******

****

Life on the road is hungry for strangers. They pass through like tumbleweeds—spiky, ragged, leaving little bits of themselves stuck to you before blowing off again.

There was Jackie, with sunburnt shoulders and a laugh that made me grin despite myself. We shared a campsite near Zion for three days, swapped stories over instant ramen, fucked like we were trying to beat the sunset, then parted with a wave and promises that neither of us ever intended to keep.

There was Miguel, who ran a mobile mechanic outfit out of his own battered van. He tightened up my serpentine belt, charged me half price, and taught me how to change my oil right there in a dusty lot outside Albuquerque. We sat on his tailgate after, sharing lukewarm sodas, talking about nothing.

Most people are kind. Or at least curious. They see the stickers on my bumper—national parks, cryptids, a faded peace sign—and ask where I’m from. I always smile and say: “Right here.”

**The Little Rituals******

****

Living in a van means every small task becomes its own ceremony.

Brushing teeth involves a bottle of water balanced between my knees and a tiny cup to spit into. Laundry is a two-hour affair at whatever laundromat I can find, reading dog-eared paperbacks while the machines churn. I keep a small box for keepsakes: ticket stubs, weird rocks, a polaroid of me standing in front of a giant ball of yarn somewhere in Kansas.

I learned to cook with exactly one pot. I can make a killer lentil stew that simmers on the camp stove while I scribble in my journal. The van fills with the smell of garlic and cumin, cozy as a witch’s hut.

**When It Breaks******

****

And oh, it does break.

The starter died outside Boise, leaving me cursing and pacing in a gravel pullout while semis blasted past. A tow cost more than I had, so I spent two days learning how to swap it out myself. Skinned my knuckles bloody, got grease under every fingernail, but when I turned that key and the engine roared to life—fuck, there was nothing like it. I sat there grinning like a maniac, arms greasy, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on my face.

I’ve replaced brake pads, patched hoses with duct tape, crawled under with a flashlight clamped in my teeth. The van is my lover and my monster, always threatening to leave me stranded. I keep a toolkit that grows heavier with every town, every hiccup.

**The Loneliness******

****

Of course there’s loneliness.

Sometimes it’s the shape of the empty passenger seat, where the leather’s cracked in a pattern I’ve memorized like the lines of a lover’s palm. Sometimes it’s nights when I park far out under the stars and they seem so vast and cold that my breath catches.

I talk to myself. Out loud. Narrate what I’m doing: “Alright, let’s check the oil… don’t be low again, you bitch.” Or I sing. Badly, loudly, to whatever’s on the radio.

And there are days I crave a real bed in a real room that doesn’t rock when the wind hits. A morning where I wake up and walk across carpet to a bathroom, not crunch over gravel with a roll of toilet paper tucked under my arm. A kitchen that stays still, shelves that don’t rattle.

But then I pass a horizon that knocks the wind out of me—some canyon I didn’t know was there, a herd of elk moving like shadows through mist—and it’s enough. More than enough.

**Dreams******

****

If you’d asked me five years ago where I’d be now, I wouldn’t have guessed this. I had an apartment, a sofa, a cat named Clover. I had Friday night takeout and Netflix binges, Sunday morning brunch with friends.

It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t alive, either.

Now, I dream in highways. I dream of ghost towns where only wind moves, of campfires that pop and spit under a cathedral of pines. I dream of waking up somewhere new, every single day if I want, the road unfurling before me like a promise.

**What’s Next******

****

That’s the thing. There’s no map. No five-year plan.

Maybe next week I’ll head up the coast into Washington, look for work on an organic farm, trade a few hours of weeding for a hot shower and a place to park under apple trees heavy with fruit. Maybe I’ll chase down a flyer for a music festival in Oregon, dance barefoot in mud until dawn. Maybe I’ll drive east, keep driving, end up in Maine eating lobster rolls by some cold gray harbor.

Or maybe the van will die for good in the middle of nowhere. Maybe I’ll sell her for scrap, hitch a ride, start over in some dusty little town. I could fall in love there. I could open a roadside diner, live above it, serve pie to truckers. Who knows?

**For Now******

****

For now, it’s me and the van. A half tank of gas. A cooler with beer and cheese and apples. A handful of dreams rattling around in the glove box.

I’ll keep chasing sunsets that burn so bright they make my eyes water. I’ll keep laughing with strangers, learning new constellations, scribbling down stories on scraps of paper. I’ll keep fixing what breaks, feeding myself on lentils and laughter and the occasional thrill of something entirely new.

I’ll keep going. Because it’s not just a way to live—it’s the only way that ever made me feel truly alive.