I’m a few days away from taking the leap into a van life I never expected to love. I started to plan this trip long before I lost my grandmother. The grief has been the gentle nudge I needed to remember why I want to travel in the first place. A nudge strong enough to ignore all the doubts people have when I mention this idea.  

I get a lot of funny comments and questions when people find out that I’ve decided to live in a van full time, especially when they realize I’m doing this for the second time. The first and most common is a Chris Farley reference. “Do you live in a van by the river?” to which I almost mechanically reply now, “only on my good days.” The rivers are some of the best spots in van life, after all. 

The second response asks if I have a van life YouTube channel. I mean, yes I have a YouTube channel but it has very few videos about living in the van, my capsule wardrobe, or how I get power. 

The last one is, “I couldn’t do it.” They imagine van life as rugged. I assure them it surely is not. I have electricity and all my stuff. I try to stay at places with plumbing. It’s just not that rugged when you still have flushing toilets. 

Truth be told - I still don’t know if *I* can do van life. It’s not as glamorous as the influencers make it look with all their POV videos and filters. It is logistical nightmares and mechanical issues. Weather. Planning and preparing then having it all blow up in your face. Or catch on fire, literally. That happened, too. Not to mention how hard it is on my joints and back. Both get a little more sore with every big step I take into the driver's seat. That handle I can pull myself up with is a real lifesaver. 

But beyond the back aches and fears about fitting two people and a dog in that space sits a little bit of hope that getting back on the road full time will help me heal. Help me get to the good parts of grief where I don’t feel weird. The part where I remember that this day isn’t given. That I’m pretty damn lucky to be here. 

Whether I believe I can or not, I know this to be true. My van is one of the only places I consistently remember how lucky I am just to be alive. 

Grief has motivated me. Reminds me that there’s no guarantee. To say I love you and squeeze my people harder. To stop pretending that I have forever and just go do the damn thing. This time, that happens to be parked near rivers in a van pointed toward the West Coast, knowing my grandmother would be so proud of me for remembering to live.