How Living in a Van for 2 Years Changed My Definition of Home

Two years ago, I got rid of almost everything I owned — from trinkets and framed photos to furniture and my entire book collection (which I donated). I kept just a few precious memories, like undeveloped disposable cameras, and my clothes in boxes tucked away at my parents’ house. I had quit my job, and in just a few short hours I would be taking the biggest leap of my life: heading to an RV dealership with a $75,000 cashier’s check to purchase a converted cargo van so that I could live in it full-time.

The dream of RV living was a long time coming, but the decision happened in an instant. I wanted more out of life. I craved freedom and was bored with stability. Now’s the time, I thought, before I get stuck on a high rung of the corporate ladder.

So I leapt. In weeks, I was unemployed and shaking a salesman’s hand. I remember wondering if I was being reckless, and knowing it was too late. It was the most impulsive decision of my life — and the best one.

Before I moved into my van, I did get rid of most of my earthly possessions. But what I didn’t realize was that preparing to live in a van isn’t just about getting rid of stuff. There’s a mental shift, and most of it doesn’t happen before you actually move in. I knew what I was up against: showers limited to once a week, losing the convenience of in-home laundry, and crawling into bed and accepting the grains of dirt in my sheets. 

Those were the easy things. The hard lessons were figuring out where to park the van and sleep every night, giving up your spot to someone else during the day and not being sure it would be there when I came back, or moving at midnight because my intuition told me to. It’s spending hours planning water and propane refills, or waiting around to move because my cat won’t come inside.

Purging stuff isn’t just about minimizing possessions; it’s about shedding your notions of what life should look like. For me, that shift came late. For the first few months, the good outweighed the bad. I’d spent my savings and owned little more than a closet’s worth of belongings, but I felt free. 

As they say in the nomad community, home is where you park it. When the shift where you let go of your old life finally happens, when the novelty wears off — and it does, even when you live in a van — you might start to wonder how society sees you. I did. Sometimes I felt like an adventurer. Other times I felt like unwanted scum. Depends on the city and the local consensus on “van lifers.” 

After some time, I stopped caring. Who cares when you’re waking up to staggering mountain views through your bedroom window, staying up all night under the midnight sun in Alaska, or returning to a comfortable (albeit small) bed after each adventure-filled day? As far as I was concerned, I was home. The forest was home, and so was the desert, beach, and grassland. Wherever my van was, I was home. 

Van life wears you down if you aren’t careful. I wasn’t. In my first year on the road, I drove from Miami, to San Diego, to Anchorage, to Alberta. In my second, I drove from Cabo, to Seattle, to Denver, and everywhere in between. I went too fast, and it took a toll on me.

But going too fast taught me a lot about the struggles of impermanence and the value of a stable home. When you move that often, sustaining a community is nearly impossible. The people you meet are wonderful, but the chances of reuniting with them again are slim. So much time spent on the road goes to the logistics of living, instead of living itself: You have to find a shower, water source, or place to sleep almost every day.

Simple things that I didn’t think twice about when I lived in a stationary home become half-day endeavors. Every day brought a barrage of micro-decisions: Where’s the nearest water spigot? Is it potable? Should I do laundry while I’m in this town, or the next? Can one chore wait until tomorrow, or will I not have a chance to get it done?

When things go wrong (and they do) I could sometimes be left both without a home and a vehicle at the same time. I learned to be prepared to pack a bag and have money to pay for a last-minute hotel. Still, knowing how hard it was to maintain a home and travel the way I wanted, I persisted.

I loved my time as a full-time van lifer, but after two years I’m moving back into a 1200-square-foot apartment, and I’m not mad about reconnecting with the conveniences and stability of a stationary home.

People say what makes a home isn’t what it looks like or what’s in it: It’s the love inside. I agree, mostly. My van was full of love, stuffed to the brim with myself, my husband, two cats, and two dogs. Looking back, that kept me going.

Now that I’m back in an apartment, I realize I do care about what’s in my home. I’m a decorator and organizer at heart, and I buried those parts of myself for two years. I love a tidy, beautiful home, which verges on impossible with six beings in 40 square feet.

It almost feels strange to say, but I realized that I felt the same joy arranging framed photos on new walls as I did when I dangled my toes over a cliff, gazing at mountains. Baking bread and cooking extravagant meals for friends fills me with a warmth no viewpoint can match. Buying fresh flowers, displaying my scrapbooks, climbing into clean, cool sheets — those things make a home, to me.

Maybe that makes me materialistic; a “fake” van lifer. But as I settle into my cozy home without wheels, I don’t care. Catch me reveling in unlimited showers, in-home laundry, and a microwave oven. I’ll be at my local thrift store browsing the trinkets to replace all of those I purged two years ago. 

P.S.: I’m keeping the van. It’s not either/or. I’ve realized I can love a stationary home and still chase the thrill of the open road.