In May 2019, our four-person family launched out on a full-time RV adventure.
Over the course of the past year-and-a-half, we’ve visited — and biked — dozens of jaw-droppingly beautiful locations across the Western US: red-soaked cliffs in Sedona, AZ, intoxicatingly dark woods in the Pacific Northwest, and the Rockies’ tall peaks that span from Colorado to Montana.
In all of these places, we’ve faced discomfort head-on, wrestled with each others’ egos, and learned to sit with the unknown. Together, these experiences created a furnace in which we were forced to adapt, or burn to ashes.
It’s been amazing watching everyone grow by leaps and bounds and rise into the sky like a Phoenix. We’re stronger, more resilient, much more capable of handling life’s difficulties as they come, and able to better appreciate the good times.
But goddamnit, I’m ready to get out of this fucking RV.
I want to take a 30-minute shower, sit at an actual dining room table, chill out on the couch and watch TV, sleep in a real bed, walk around without shaking the entire house, put dirty dishes in a dishwasher, have a pantry and plenty of cabinet space, wash clothes in my own house … I could keep going.
Granted, like Thich Nhat Hanh’s non-toothache, my experiences without these luxuries will help me appreciate them even more when I’m finally living in a “real” home again.