A Series of Firsts

As of yesterday, I am 75% of the way through my gap year. It has both flown by and lasted forever. The first quarter was a contraction–selling, donating, tossing all of my furniture and belongings until I could fit into a single carload of boxes, deposited in my sister’s basement, and a backpack with everything I needed to travel Europe and Asia for four straight months. The second quarter was all travel, all the time. And the third quarter started with travel, but I’ve been back in the states for the last six weeks and have been consumed with thoughts and plans centered around building out the van.

Last Friday, I spent the day installing an insulated sub-floor. This involved breaking out the new power tools, including a jigsaw, circular saw, and multi-tool. I have never used any of these tools before, and it was both thrilling and terrifying. Here was the proof I needed that even with no experience, I can do this project. I can handle whatever challenges or mishaps I might encounter and find a way through them. At the end of the day, I had a beautiful functional floor. I’m leaving it as bare (birch) plywood for now since I’m not sure what the final interior design will be.

The next day, after watching half a dozen YouTube videos, I climbed up on the roof of the van and cut a 14” square hole for the fan. Three trips to Lowe’s and 10 hours later, the installation was still not finished. My son called toward the end of the day and then got off the phone quickly because he said my cortisol level was too high for him. Yeah, I cut a hole in my perfectly good roof, of course I was stressed out. I was able to finish the project in the morning, and had such a tremendous sense of accomplishment about it.

On Sunday, after finishing the fan installation, I assembled my kitchenette from IKEA and built a raised bed across the back of the van. I installed the mattress and purchased some bedding and threw my old comforter across it and voilà! A full-sized bed. For the last five nights, I have slept in the van. As soft launches go, it’s been surprisingly smooth. I’m still trying to work out some of the kinks and develop a new routine. The first night, the temperature dropped down to 43 degrees and I would have been lost without my electric blanket. By morning I was wrapped up in it like a burrito.

It wasn’t until last night that I had the courage to try sleeping somewhere other than outside Carey’s house, where the promise of a bathroom and an electrical outlet beckoned inside. I cut the umbilical cord and drove two hours to a state park called Kissimmee Prairie Preserve. You get what you get in terms of campground neighbors. Mine played cornhole for three straight hours, even well after it got completely dark. When I first arrived, I briefly wished I were traveling with someone, but my neighbors’ constant chatter made me grateful for the silence of my own company. This is just another form of solo travel.

I went to bed feeling like I could be parked anywhere. I woke up to a beautiful sunrise over a prairie full of tall grasses and birdsong. As I sat and drank my coffee and wrote in my journal, it reminded me of the mornings I used to spend on my old patio, in my marital home, where I had replaced the back lawn with a vibrant meadow. Nature is my happy place. Time in the woods is my self-care. The van isn’t the point, this is. With all the recent travel, and the cold winter, and the desolate (to my eyes) landscape of Florida, I’d forgotten this simple fact.

The reality of living in a van full time is just now hitting me. I think the most stressful part will be figuring out where to park each night. I do not want to be woken up by the dreaded knock when stealth camping in a retail parking lot. As with anything, I am sure I will develop a skill around finding free places to park, and in the meantime I am happy to pay campground fees for the peace of mind, and facilities. The van experience so far has been a series of firsts: first road trip, first time I slept, cooked, ate, pooped, etc. in the van. I am launching my new life, one ordinary moment at a time. Seventy-five percent through this gap year, I’m no longer dismantling or wandering—I’m constructing. Not just the van, but a way of living that feels aligned with who I am right now. The rest will sort itself out.