Adventure was always on my mind growing up. My parents had to hide their laughs as I hung up motivational mountain posters in my bedroom. They took me everywhere they could, but I never went alone. That changed on my twenty-sixth birthday.

They gave me a fixer-upper blue van that took six months to repair and two more months to make it clean and cozy. And then I said my goodbyes and started my first-ever solo trip.

I lasted three weeks before I found myself in Bakersfield, parked behind a laundromat. My favorite adventure souvenir is a half-dead cactus named Spike. The money is gone, the van won’t start, and now I work part-time jobs here at the laundromat or across the street at the grocery store.

Nothing is like I had hoped it would be. The money I do make goes towards food, shampoo, gas, and repairs that don’t last long. It’s weird how quickly a road trip becomes a home address.

And I don’t want to call home and ask for help. Because this is still my adventure. I have to find a way to finish. Or make it back on my own.

There have been good days and bad. I once tried to boil pasta using a dashboard sun reflector. I don’t want to talk about it. My van has been parked for three weeks. That’s as long as I was on the road.

There’s a pigeon I named Carlos that visits me in the evenings. I give him seeds from a bag I keep. They’re cheap, and it makes things better knowing I have a friend other than Spike.

Well, there is Patricia, who works at the coffee shop down the street. She gives me a muffin or coffee sometimes. Patricia doesn’t say much, but when she does, it makes my eyes water with gratitude. It’s funny how much a small act can make such a big difference.

Failure looks like a breakdown—or so I thought. Now, I know it’s much quieter. Failure is running out of peanut butter. Or seeds for Carlos.

But I fixed the roof leak last night. I laughed and danced, my hands in the air as the radio played in the background. It’s the small wins that count.

I have white Christmas lights strung around the van now. It stays clean and tidy. I’ve got a wall of postcards of where I’ve been, with Spike on a table nearby. And I know: I am not lost. I am parked.

Peace is the friendly people who wave as they walk by when I’m sipping my coffee on a beach chair outside the van. Peace is warm soup after I bought a tabletop stove with my first paycheck. Peace is Spike refusing to die. I’m terrible with plants.

I’m not waiting to bounce back anymore. I’m rebuilding, slowly, in my own way. I’m enjoying being parked. And when it comes time—when my mattress has enough money tucked inside—the van will start, and I’ll be back on the road.

My parents don’t know about the van not running, but they know I’m parked here. They think I’m just having fun and enjoying this spot for a bit. Or maybe there’s a boy or something. I can’t wait to be able to send them more postcards.

A new map is taped to the ceiling of the van. Instead of towns marked, I’ve spelled words across the states: Patience. Kindness. Persistence. Humor. Sunlight. These words put a smile on my face when I wake up.

Tomorrow, I’ll give Carlos an entire new bag of seeds and see if Patricia’s working to thank her for her kindness. I’ll wash my hair in the sink behind the laundromat, and then I’ll be ready for Louie (Patricia’s nephew) to come over. He thinks he can fix it.

The van still creaks. Spike still leans. But I’ve got coffee, sunlight, and a map full of words.

I think that’s enough for now.

And maybe, just maybe—tomorrow, I’ll drive.