I guess this is the part where I say something like, "New chapter, new wheels," but honestly? It’s less romantic and more “what the fuck am I doing?”
I moved into a 1991 Dodge B350 van. His name is Oscar. He’s boxy, creaky, smells a bit like old dust and freedom, and somehow, I already feel more at home here than I have in any apartment in years.
It’s not glamorous. I’m not out here pretending to be a Pinterest vanlife influencer with fairy lights and pour-over coffee rituals. I’ve got paint-stained sheets, two half-broken drawers, a cooler that whines louder than I do when I spiral, and a drawer full of tangled chargers and emotional damage.
And there’s space.
To breathe.
To paint.
To write.
To scream into the void when I need to.
And lately, I’ve needed to.
Madi, my Great Dane, doesn’t live with me right now. That part hurts more than I expected. She’s my emotional support behemoth, and not having her curled up (read: sprawled like royalty) next to me makes the space feel quieter in a way that isn’t always peaceful. I miss her a lot.
But I’m here.
This isn’t an escape—it’s an arrival. A shift. A claiming of space that’s mine, even if it’s on wheels and held together by hope and duct tape.
More on that later.
Oscar and I are just getting started.