06/30/2026
There was once a summer when I traveled around the world for 4 years. I measured freedom by the weight of my backpack on my shoulders, and the ability to stay and stare at the same rocks or river for another day—always one more day. Or sometimes, by knowing that although books took up too much space in my bag, they always ended up making my travels lighter—and that if you wait to travel later, you are only robbing your future self of a wealth of joys and heartbreak. For what are memories, if not things you have and have lost at the same time.
Sometime after college, I was told—or maybe I told myself—that I had to choose between putting down roots or spreading my wings. That almost felt unnatural to me. I need both, but it took miles to figure out what freedom means to me. Roots to stay present, to drink from the soil I stand on, to recharge, to learn, to grow—and wings to marry yesterday's nostalgia with tomorrow's dreams, wings with claws to reach for all I yearn for and all I've lost. I find that freedom, for me, is like a mythological creature that has both roots and wings—and no longer fights either of them.
Now, 40 countries and six years of full-time vanlivin' later—outside the van, endless adventure, mother nature, health through movement; inside the van, my routines, my books (a Kindle, this time), my comforts, and better meals than I've ever cooked in a house.
My roots got me a dog, and my wings got me a van, and the road is the road is the road.
