I pulled into Oak Grove, Louisiana not really knowing what to expect. It was one of those small towns you pass through and think — wait, what’s that? And what caught my eye was a city park with a little sign that said camping was available. Pay by the honor system. Eleven dollars a night.

Eleven dollars. I almost laughed.

I had my Volvo camper, a full evening ahead of me, and absolutely nowhere I needed to be. So I pulled in.

The setup was as simple as it gets. There’s a little payment box — the kind that runs completely on the trust that people are decent — and I fed it a $10 bill and four quarters. That’s it. No check-in desk. No app. No QR code. Just you, your cash, and your conscience. Moments later I had a spot with electricity and water hookups. For eleven dollars. In 2024. I’m still not over it.

The park was quiet. Actually, quiet is an understatement — I was the only camper there. The whole place was mine. Just me, the Louisiana evening air, and the distant sound of frogs doing what frogs do best.

I set up near this old log house that sat at the edge of the park. Charming in that weathered, historical kind of way. I was admiring it when I noticed one cat. Then another. Then I started counting and somewhere around fifteen I stopped because it became clear this was going to take a while.

There were at least fifty cats living around that log house. Maybe more. They weren’t aggressive — they were just there, going about their business like they owned the place. Which, honestly, they kind of did. Some lounged on the porch. Some disappeared into the brush. A few wandered over to check me out, decided I was uninteresting, and went back to cat business.

I’m not a cat person, exactly, but I respected the commitment. That log house had a whole colony going and nobody was bothering anybody.

I made dinner, sat outside in the quiet, and just... existed for a while. No crowds. No noise. No neighbors with a generator running all night. Just a warm Louisiana evening, a sky full of stars, and fifty cats living their best lives twenty yards away.

There’s something really special about these little trust-based stops you stumble into on the road. No corporation took my credit card. No algorithm matched me to a campsite. A small town just put out a box and said we trust you — and that means something.

Oak Grove city park, you were a gem. Ten dollars and four quarters well spent.

Have you ever stumbled into an unexpected campsite that turned out to be the highlight of a trip? Drop it in the comments — I want to hear about it.

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

I was so exhausted from fighting the traffic, and that blaring hot sun staring me in the face the whole way. It was a real relief to finally pull into the lot just after dusk — engine off, the day done with me at last.

I washed my face with cold water and drank a can of Arizona iced tea over ice. Ate a few peanut butter crackers, and then I tucked myself into bed. Between the sheets, I cracked both windows about twelve inches to get a good airflow going, and ran my two USB fans — one of them blowing right over my body.

I knocked out fast.

Woke up natural, right with the crack of dawn. I’ve done this for years. It comes naturally to me now — no alarm needed, my body just knows when the morning’s here. It was May, and even early the air already had that warmth to it. You could tell the day was going to be a hot one. No need for a heater — the morning was doing all the work itself.

I made myself a cup of coffee and took my medicine while I waited for Cracker Barrel to open up. And I’ll tell you — I was getting hungry for some biscuits and sausage gravy.

I stretched out on my twin mattress, lying down, working the stiffness out from my shoulders all the way to my feet. Took my time with it. Then I wiped the sleep out of my eyes.

Pulled on my knee-high white pants. Climbed up to the front seat, combed my hair, got my sunglasses on — going to need them with that sun coming. Folded a twenty-dollar bill and slid it in my pocket. Grabbed my keys.

Walked on into the restaurant.

Ordered two eggs over easy with a side of biscuits, sausage gravy, and coffee. While I waited, I watched the waitress get her day started — moving table to table, refilling cups, keeping the whole floor running smooth. I chitchatted a little with her and the cashier both. Easy morning talk, nothing heavy.

Paid my bill, thanked them, and walked back out to the car.

The air was already warming up good. I pulled out of that lot and headed east on I-10 toward Dallas — windows down, sun climbing, the road long and straight ahead of me.

Leave a comment

If you spent any time living on the road someone has already told you about Cracker Barrel.

It's passed around in stealth camping circles like a secret handshake. You know you can park at Cracker Barrel right? And the first time someone told me, I didn't believe them. A restaurant? A gift shop full of rocking chairs and peppermint candy? That Cracker Barrel?

Yes. That one.

Here's the thing nobody tells you up front.

Cracker Barrel doesn't advertise this. There's no sign in the parking lot that says travelers welcome. There's no official policy posted on their website. What there is— is a long quiet tradition of the company looking the other way while road weary travelers sleep in their lots overnight.

Some locations are better than others. Some managers are more welcoming than others. But by and large, if you pull in after the dinner rush, park considerably, and walk inside to buy a coffee or a meal before you settle in for the night— nobody bothers you.

I learned that the first time I tried it, somewhere off the highway in Texas, too tired to drive another mile.

I almost didn't stop

It felt too invisible. Too exposed. A Cracker Barrel rest parking lot isn’t tucked away— It's right off the Interstate, lit up like a small town,cars coming and going until the restaurant closes at 10. I sat in the turning lane for a minute before I convince myself to pull in.

I ordered a coffee and a piece of pie at the counter. Ate slowly. Watched the dining room empty out. Tipped well. Then I walked back to my car, drew my blackout curtains, locked my doors, and told myself I'd give it one hour before deciding if it felt safe enough to stay.

I wake I woke up 8 hours later.

What surprised me most wasn't the sleep

It was the morning. I pulled my curtains back just before sunrise and watched the parking lot come alive— delivery trucks, early staff, a few other travelers slowly stirring in their vehicles. Nobody rushing anyone alone. Nobody knocking on windows.

Just people. Passing through. Doing what they had to do.

I went inside, ordered breakfast, and left a good tip again. It felt like the right thing to do. Like paying a small, honest rent on the space I'd used.

A few things worth knowing if you try it:

• Pull in after the dinner rush, not before

• Go inside and buy something—a meal, a coffee, anything

• Park away from the entrance, not in the prime spots

• Leave before or shortly after they open for breakfast

• Be clean, be quiet, be invisible

Cracker Barrel didn’t have to let travelers do this. They could post signs tomorrow and end it overnight. The fact that they haven’t —quietly, for years—says something about the kind of company they are.

I always leave a good tip. It’s the least I can do.

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

The rain started somewhere west of Amarillo and followed me all the way to the truck stop like it knew I was tired.

By the time I pulled into the glowing parking lot of Love’s Travel Stops & Country Stores, diesel engines were already humming through the night like restless animals that never sleep. Headlights cut through the darkness. Air brakes hissed. Men in heavy boots crossed the pavement carrying coffee cups bigger than my kitchen mugs back home.

I parked my little black Volvo between two pickup trucks near the edge of the lot — far enough away not to be noticed, but close enough to feel safe.

That strange balance becomes your whole life when you live this way.

Invisible, but not vulnerable.

The rain tapped softly against the windows while I hung blackout curtains and settled into the back seat. At seventy-five years old, my bones ached from driving. My shoulders hurt. My hands smelled faintly of gasoline and wet dog food after opening a can for my little companion curled beside me.

Inside the store, everything felt overly bright.

Shelves packed with chrome tools. Trucker hats. Cinnamon rolls spinning beneath warm lights. Country music drifting overhead while exhausted travelers wandered the aisles with the hollow look of people trying to outrun loneliness one highway at a time.

No one asked questions.

That’s one thing I’ve learned about truck stops.

Everybody is carrying something heavy.

Outside, the rain kept falling on eighteen wheelers lined up for the night, their engines rumbling steady beneath the storm. I climbed back inside my car, locked the doors, and listened to America breathing around me through diesel smoke, thunder, and worn out tires rolling east toward morning.

For a moment, I didn’t feel homeless.

I just felt human.

If you’ve ever spent a night inside a vehicle listening to rain hit the roof while the rest of the world hurried past you, you probably understand this feeling better than most.

Best,

Carol

Leave a comment

A note before we dive in:

If you’re new here — welcome. This space is for people living the stealth life. Car campers, van dwellers, solo travelers stretching every dollar and every mile. I write about what actually works out on the road — not the Instagram version, the real version. The kind where you figure out where to safely sleep at 10pm in an unfamiliar town, where you stretch a tank of gas, and where you find peace in the most unexpected places.

This post is about one of those unexpected places. And if you’ve never considered sleeping at a truck stop, I hope by the end of this you’re ready to try it.

Why I Always Stop at Love’s

I’ve wondered more than once how Love’s Travel Stops got its name.

Maybe Love is the founder’s last name. Maybe it’s just a clever slogan designed to stick in your head. Honestly, I’m not sure — but whatever the reason, it works. The name is easy to remember, and the stops seem to be everywhere you look.

Curious, I did a little digging. Turns out there are 670 Love’s locations across 42 states, with plans to open 20 more stores and add 52,000 truck parking spaces by the end of 2026. When I read that, I just sat back and thought — wow.

A Family Built This

Love’s was founded by Tom and Judy Love in 1964 in Watonga, Oklahoma. Just two people with a vision and the courage to build something from nothing. Tom passed away in 2023, Judy in 2024 — and yet the business carries on, run today by their three children.

Still a family operation. I love that more than I can say.

My Home on the Road

I’ve slept many nights at Love’s while passing through Texas. More often than not, I fill up there too. At this point I’d call myself a dedicated customer — not out of habit, but out of genuine appreciation.

There’s something about Love’s that just feels right. Safe. Familiar. When you’re traveling solo and the sun goes down, that feeling matters more than most people realize. I’d much rather be parked in a well-lit, busy truck stop than tucked into some dark, isolated pull-off on the side of the highway. Visibility is safety. And Love’s gives me both.

Yes, It’s Noisy. No, I Don’t Mind.

Let’s be honest — truck stops are loud. Diesel engines, reefer units humming through the night, big rigs pulling in and out at 2am, 3am, 4am. Bright lights flooding the lot from every direction.

But here’s the thing. None of that bothers me.

I pull my blackout curtains tight. Not a sliver of light gets in — and no one can see in either. Doors locked. Everything secure. The outside world disappears, and it’s just me, quiet, and the kind of deep rest that only comes when your body finally gets to exhale.

The noise of truckers moving through the night? It’s become its own kind of comfort. Like white noise. Like proof that the world is still turning while I sleep.

Want to Try It? Here’s What Works.

Stealth car camping at a truck stop is an art, and Love’s is one of the best places to practice it. Here’s what works for me:

• Arrive late, leave early — blend into the natural flow of traffic

• Keep everything inside — no chairs, no gear outside, nothing that signals you’re staying the night

• Blackout curtains are non-negotiable — light in or out gives you away

• Park on the outer edges — away from the fuel lanes and the heaviest traffic

• Buy something inside — coffee, a snack, fuel. You’re using their lot; support the business

That’s it. No reservation. No fee. Just a safe, bright, busy place to rest your head — and hit the road again in the morning.

Tom and Judy Love built something worth trusting. For those of us living life on the road, that trust means everything.

Best,

Carol

Leave a comment

5:00 AM and the Sky is Waking Up

It’s 5:00 AM and there’s a thin grow of daylight creeping in outside. My body knows before my mind does — it’s always been that way. I pull back my reflectives and check the skies. I’ve done that since I was a child and I don’t imagine I’ll ever stop.

My eyes are better this morning and I am grateful for that. The sun in Texas and Arizona has a way of cutting right through you — fiercer than anywhere else I’ve ever been. By the end of the day my eyes are burning and raw and I just have to push through it. That’s the deal you make when you choose this life.

The Quiet of the Rest Area

I make a cup of coffee and climb out of the car to stretch this old body. Two 18-wheelers are parked nearby, quiet as sleeping giants. No engines. No voices. Nothing. I figure a trucker is in there catching whatever rest he can before he has to push on again. Lord knows they earn it. I have watched those men and women back those massive rigs into spaces that seem impossible and I am still in awe every single time. There is a grace to it that most people never stop long enough to notice.

I made it through another night. Some nights that feels like more of an accomplishment than others.

Loretta, George, Johnny and Merle — Still Family After 60 Years

I get back in the car and turn on the radio. Loretta Lynn comes on and something in my chest loosens just a little. I have been listening to her, to George Jones, to Johnny Cash, to Merle Haggard, for more than 60 years now. They feel like family — the kind that doesn’t leave. Their songs were always about survival, about heartache, about getting up anyway. I understand that a whole lot better now than I did at 20. These days those songs feel less like music and more like company.

The Art of Aging on Your Own Terms

I am 75 years old and I am trying to live simply and honestly and without apology. Aging is hard. Nobody warns you how hard it really is. But I believe there is an art to doing it with grace — and I am still learning that art every single day. I don’t need much. I don’t want much. Peace of mind. Open road. A sky worth waking up for.

Modern life can keep its pace. I’ll keep mine.

The Emotional Side of Van Life No One Talks About

The Road is Enough

I just want to travel. I want to feel the journey in my bones and be grateful I still can.

So tell me — what do you want to do with the rest of your life? What does a good life look like to you right now? Leave it in the comments. I mean it. I want to know your story.

Leave a comment

29 Miles and Counting

By the time I saw the sign reading 29 miles to El Paso, I breathed a little easier. That blaring West Texas sun was murder on my already dry eyes. I started thinking about roadside rest areas and made up my mind to grab the first one I saw.

Finding My Spot

I exited off I-10 just before dark and followed the signs pointing to cars and trucks, scanning the whole landscape for the best place to park — not too close, but not too isolated from other travelers either.

I pulled into a spot a few yards from the restroom. An 18-wheeler parked behind me, and since my father was a long-haul truck driver, I felt safe being nearby. The humming of a Peterbilt is music to my ears. After choosing my spot, I walked to the restroom, washed my hands, freshened up a little, and stretched my leg muscles. I drank as much cold water as I could hold.

Settling In for the Night

Back at my camper car, I put window coverings over the back windows but left the front uncovered. A blackout curtain that separates the back seat from the front makes all the difference in the world — there’s not even a shadow of light visible from inside the car. I locked the doors for the night. There was no reason to get back out before morning.

I had two small USB fans blowing cool air with cross ventilation. Both back door windows were cracked about twelve inches and covered with black knitting fabric. My little fridge was filled with cold water bottles I’d picked up at Walmart, and I had three cans of root beer, cheese, and lunch meat in case I needed a snack before morning.

Always Come Prepared

From years of traveling, I know how to come prepared — small potty, water, snacks, blankets, sleeping bag, battery bank to charge my devices. I had everything I needed except a good night’s sleep and rest for tired eyes.

Modern-Day Cowboys

Once tucked in, I couldn’t help but reminisce about the truck driver’s lifestyle — driving thousands of miles across the country just to make a living. I’ve heard them called modern-day cowboys.

Sleeping Like a Baby

It didn’t take me long to knock out cold. I was so tired I slept like a baby and didn’t worry about a thing, because I knew if anything unusual happened, my little dog would wake me.

I wore noise-canceling earbuds if I watched YouTube or listened to music, and I felt completely safe. But if something unusual ever did happen, the solution was simple — start the car and drive away into the night.

4 AM and Ready to Roll

I woke naturally at 4 AM, got my bearings, stretched, sat up, and took my meds from the pocket organizer attached to the back of my seat. I made a cup of instant coffee using a USB-powered hot water bottle. I prefer drinking out of a large Styrofoam cup, coffee three-quarters full with two mini liquid creamers — the kind that don’t need refrigeration. I keep everything simple.

When daylight came, I was ready to roll out and hit the road — and hopefully make it through El Paso’s morning work traffic.

Carol Seymour writes about life on the road, solo travel, and the art of keeping it simple.

Leave a comment

It was the spring of 2020 when I spent my very first night sleeping in a Walmart parking lot in Sweetwater, Texas.

Was I scared? A little.

Mostly, I felt awkward and out of place. Walmart had always been somewhere I stopped for groceries, not somewhere I imagined spending the night.

But after eight long hours of driving through the harsh Texas sun, my eyes burning from the glare off I-20, I was exhausted. I needed rest more than pride.

The Walmart sat just off the interstate with an easy exit, so I pulled in.

I parked far from the front entrance where I wouldn’t attract attention from late-night shoppers. After locking everything up, I went inside and picked up a rotisserie chicken, some bread, chocolate peanut butter cookies, and a can of dog food.

At the service desk, I asked if overnight parking was allowed, but no one seemed to know who to ask. On my way back outside, I spotted a security guard slowly making his rounds through the parking lot.

I waved him down and explained that I was traveling in my camper van and just needed a safe place to sleep for the night. I promised I’d leave at first light.

He smiled and told me I’d be just fine.

That small moment of kindness stayed with me.

Back inside the van, I pulled my blackout curtains tightly closed, ate my chicken, watched a couple of YouTube videos, and settled into bed.

And honestly?

I slept like a baby.

Before sunrise, I woke naturally, made myself a cup of coffee, and pulled back onto the highway feeling rested and grateful. Another four hundred miles waited ahead of me before my next stop at a rest area east of El Paso.

That night taught me something important:

Sometimes safety, rest, and peace come from the places you least expect.

If you've ever traveled long-distance, lived on the road, or spent a night in an unexpected place, I'd love to hear your story in the comments.

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

It usually happens as the sun starts to drop.

You look around, and you realize…
You don’t have a place to go.

So you have to choose one.

People think it’s random.
Like you just pull into a parking lot and call it a night.

It’s not.

Every decision matters.

I start by looking for visibility.

Not too much. Not too little.

If you’re too visible, you stand out.
If you’re too hidden, you feel exposed differently.

There’s a balance.

You learn to read a place quickly.

Who’s already there.
How long they’ve been there.
What kind of movement is happening?

Are people coming and going?
Or settling in?

That tells you everything.

Lighting matters more than you think.

Too bright, and you never relax.
Too dark, and you stay alert for different reasons.

Then there’s noise.

Engines. Doors. Footsteps.

You stop hearing them as background.
They become signals.

Information.

You start to notice patterns.

What feels normal?
What doesn’t.

And then there’s the feeling.

That’s the part no one can really explain.

You just know.

Some places look fine but don’t feel right.
Others don’t look like much—but you can breathe there.

You learn to trust that.

Because at the end of the day, you’re not just picking a place to park.

You’re picking a place to get through the night.

And that changes how you see everything.

I’ve stayed in a lot of places

.Some better than others.

Some I’d never go back to.

But each one teaches you something.

About awareness.
About patience.
About what actually matters when comfort isn’t an option.

And sometimes…

You end up in a Walmart parking lot, hoping you made the right choice.

I’ll write about that night next.

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

I didn’t plan to live in my 1998 Honda Civic car.

Nobody really does.

It starts with something small. A rent increase. A notice on the door. A conversation that doesn’t go the way you thought it would. And then one day you’re sitting in a parking lot with everything you own packed into the back seat, trying to make it make sense.

That first night is the hardest.

You don’t sleep. Not really.
You listen.

Every sound feels personal. A car door slamming. Footsteps too close. Headlights sweeping across your windows like someone searching for you.

You realize quickly—it’s not just about where you sleep.

It’s about feeling exposed. Who is really watching and why?

I remember thinking, I need to disappear without actually leaving.

That’s when I started learning the small things that make a big difference.

Where you park matters more than anything.
How you position your car matters.
What people can see when they walk by matters.

Privacy isn’t about having less windows. Or blackout curtains.

It’s about control.

Control over who sees you.
Control over how long you stay.
Control over whether you feel like a person… or a problem someone might call in.

Over time, I learned how to create that control.

Not perfectly. Not all at once. But enough to get through the night. And then the next one.

If you’re in that place right now—or getting close to it—I want you to know this:

You’re not crazy for feeling the way you do.
You’re not weak for being afraid.

You’re adjusting.

And there is a way to do this that feels safer, quieter… more yours.

I’ve been writing down everything I learned the hard way. The mistakes. The small wins. The things nobody tells you until you’re already out there figuring it out alone.

If that would help you, I put it together here:

The Survival System

No pressure. Just something I wish I had that first night.

—Carol

Leave a comment

There was a time I thought I needed everything figured out before I could live on the road.

More gear.
More planning.
More “just in case” items.

I believed being prepared meant having more.

But the truth is… more only made things harder.

More to organize.
More to store.
More to worry about.

It took me a while to understand this, but van life isn’t about what you bring with you.

It’s about what you can live without.

These days, my life is much simpler.

I wake up early.
I write while it’s quiet.
I keep my days structured enough to stay grounded, but open enough to breathe.

And inside my van, I only keep what I actually use.

Not what someone else recommended.
Not what looked good online.
Just what works for me.

/paywall

That shift didn’t happen overnight.

There were plenty of small mistakes along the way.

Buying things I didn’t need.
Keeping things I never used.
Thinking I was missing something when I really wasn’t.

But over time, I started paying attention to what mattered.

Power.
Water.
Sleep.
Comfort.

The basics.

Once those are covered, everything else becomes optional.

What I’ve learned is this:

A simple setup doesn’t limit you.
It frees you.

You spend less time managing things…
And more time living your life.

More time thinking.
More time writing.
More time just being.

If you’re trying to figure out what you actually need—and what you don’t—I put together a simple guide based on my own experience.

It’s not a long list of products.
It’s a clear look at what I keep in my van so I don’t struggle.

If it helps make your path a little easier, that’s the goal.

Wishing you simplicity.

You can find it here

Kindly,
Carol

Leave a comment

I thought I needed more to live in my van.

More gear.
More space.
More planning.

I didn’t.

What I really needed was to understand what actually matters—and what doesn’t.

That took time. And a lot of mistakes. I realized early on that you don’t need to have all the luxuries you had while living in a site build home.

Your home on wheels has limited space and less stuff means more freedom and after all, this life is about “freedom”.

Some things made life easier right away.
Other things made it harder than it needed to be.

Over time, I simplified everything.

I stopped trying to build the “perfect” setup and focused on what actually worked for me day to day. One or two of the essentials, most of the time only one would suffice.

That changed everything.

I finally put all of it into one simple place—not perfectly, just honestly.

Get the survival system here

You don’t need more.

You just need the right things.

Thanks for reading,

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

I’ve been writing on Substack for a little over five years now. And if I’m being honest, it’s taken me a long time to truly understand consistency.

I’m still learning it. I’m still searching for my rhythm—like a heartbeat finding its pace.

Because I’m an early riser, I’ve learned that my best writing happens in the morning, when the world is still quiet and full of possibility. I sit down before noon, when my mind is clear and uncluttered, and I can slip into that sacred flow where the words come not from effort, but from somewhere deeper. Most days, I work Monday through Friday and leave the weekends open to live life on my own terms—to remember what it feels like to simply be.

Traveling as a solo van lifer has given me something I didn’t have before:

Time.

Time to think. Time to write. Time to reflect on the life I’ve lived—the roads I’ve traveled, the mistakes I’ve made, the moments of grace I almost missed.

Today, I have over 1,900 subscribers—real people who signed up to hear my story. That’s something I don’t take lightly. Behind every number is a person with their own dreams, their own struggles, their own reasons for showing up. And with that comes responsibility—the kind that sits warm and heavy in your chest, reminding you that your words matter to someone, somewhere.

To stay consistent, I use a three-month content calendar to plan ahead. I publish two posts each week and write three short notes daily—morning, noon, and evening. Those notes are like breadcrumbs scattered throughout the day, helping new readers find their way to me when they need a moment of connection.

I also use scheduling tools to plan my content in advance. Because life happens. Life always happens. We don’t always have control over our time, our energy, or even our own hearts. But having things scheduled—knowing the work will go out even on the days I can barely get out of bed—helps me stay consistent, even when everything else feels uncertain.

My Daily Routine on the Road

Van life may feel lonely to some people, but for me, it isn’t. I’ve created structure in my day, and that structure has become a kind of home—the only home I can carry with me, no matter where I park.

My typical day looks like this:

• Wake up at 5:00 a.m. — The world is still sleeping, and I have it all to myself

• Stretch, check the weather, and take my medication — Small rituals that anchor me

• Make coffee and write in my journal — Honest words no one else will read

• Cook and eat breakfast — Something warm, something simple

• Create a to-do list — Just a few things. Nothing impossible.

Within about 30 minutes, I begin writing my Substack posts. The words come easier in the morning, when I haven’t yet spent my energy on the noise of the day. Once I’ve finished writing and scheduling, I handle comments, engagement, and planning ahead—tending to the relationships that have grown from this work.

By noon, my Substack work is done.

The rest of the day is slower, gentler:

• Lunch and a short walk — Moving my body, clearing my head

• Rest, sometimes a short nap — No guilt, no apology

• A few open hours — To do whatever comes my way, or nothing at all

Later in the day, I spend one to two hours working on my novel—a story about a homeless man named Smitty, a man who exists somewhere between invisible and unforgettable. I write at least an hour each day, then step away and rest. Some stories need space to breathe before they can be finished.

My bedtime is usually between 8:00 and 9:00 p.m. I try to keep that consistent, because I’ve learned the hard way that good rest matters more now than ever. Sleep is the foundation everything else is built on.

Why I Keep Going

Building a Substack newsletter while living on the road has given me something deeper than income, something more lasting than recognition.

It has given me purpose.

Between writing my newsletter and working on my novel, I feel a sense of direction—a reason to wake up at 5:00 a.m. and start again, a reason to keep moving forward, one small day at a time.

And on the hardest days—the ones where loneliness creeps in like fog, where doubt whispers that none of this matters—I remember those 1,900 people. I remember that somewhere, someone is reading my words over their morning coffee. Someone is finding a piece of themselves in my story.

And that is enough.

That has always been enough.

Leave a comment

There are things you don’t think about…
until you have to sleep in your vehicle.

Not the comfortable parts.
The real parts.

Where do you park?
What do you do when it gets dark?
What happens if someone knocks?

These aren’t questions you answer ahead of time.

You learn them when you’re tired…
when it’s late…
and when you don’t have many options.

I’ve spent nights where everything felt quiet on the outside—but not on the inside.

You listen differently.

A car door closing.
Footsteps that don’t keep walking.
Voices too close to your window.

That’s when you realize something:

Safety isn’t about being tough.
It’s about being prepared.

Over time, I built a system.

Nothing fancy.
Nothing complicated.

Just simple things that help me:

• Stay unnoticed

• Stay ready

• Stay calm

Things like:

• Where I choose to park

• When I arrive

• How I set up for the night

• What I do—and don’t do—after dark

I didn’t learn this from a book.

I learned it from real nights.

From paying attention.
From making mistakes.
From deciding I wasn’t going to repeat them.

So I wrote it down.

Not the pretty version of van life.

The real version.

A short, practical guide on how I:

• Choose safe places to park

• Set up so no one knows I’m inside

• Handle situations before they become problems

• Stay ready to leave if I need to

If you’re living this life—or thinking about it—this will help you.

If you're living this life, or thinking about it, this will help you.

Leave a comment

This isn’t about fear.

It’s about knowing what to do…
so you can get through the night.

Over time, I simplified everything and kept only what actually works.

So I made a simple checklist of what I carry now.

If you’re trying to make van life easier, you can take a look here:
Get the checklist here

Leave a comment

You don’t need more stuff.
You need the right stuff.

Read more

Van life is lonely… if you let it be.

Read more

When I first started figuring out how to power my van, I thought I had to do it the “right” way.

You know the way I mean—the full solar setup.

Panels on the roof.
Wires running everywhere.
A system that made you feel like you were building something serious.

So I did what most people do.

I went down the YouTube rabbit hole.

I watched hours of videos explaining how to build the perfect setup. One creator I trusted broke it down simply: connect a battery, a charger, and rooftop panels. His reasoning made sense—if one part failed, you could replace it.

It sounded smart.

But it also sounded expensive. And complicated.

And honestly, a little dangerous for someone like me with no electrical experience.

Buying Before I Was Ready

Instead of slowing down, I rushed.

I bought Renogy equipment thinking I would “figure it out later.”

It’s still sitting in a box.

That was my first mistake.

The Mistake That Cost Me

Then I tried a different approach.

I bought a portable power station—a 1000W lithium battery generator. It worked well in the beginning. It powered my small devices, helped me write, and gave me a sense of independence.

But I made one critical mistake:

I didn’t pay attention to the battery level.

While I was focused on writing on Substack, the power slowly drained… until it hit 0%.

And once it did—it wouldn’t turn back on.

That moment taught me something I won’t forget:

In van life, your power is your lifeline.

What Finally Worked

After all that trial and error, I found something that actually works for me.

A simple, reliable power station.

No complicated wiring.
No stress.
No guessing.

Just something I can plug in, charge, and trust.

Now I can power:

• My kettle for coffee in the morning

• A hot pot for simple meals

• My phone and laptop

• Lights, fans, and even a small fridge

It’s not fancy.

But it’s enough.

The Truth No One Tells You

You don’t need a perfect system.

You don’t need to build a full solar setup right away.

And you definitely don’t need to risk your safety trying to figure out electrical work you’re not comfortable with.

You just need something that works for your life right now.

What I Wish I Knew

If I could go back, I would tell myself this:

Start simple.
Pay attention to your power usage.
And don’t let YouTube convince you that there’s only one “right” way.

Want the Full Breakdown?

I put together a simple guide showing exactly what I use, what I wasted money on, and what I would do differently.

Get it here

If you’re trying to figure this out too—you’re not alone.

And you don’t have to get it perfect.

You just have to get started.

Leave a comment

Read more

It’s not the views.
It’s not the freedom.

It’s this simple question:

How do you stay clean?

Because when your vehicle becomes your home, you don’t get to walk into a bathroom, turn a knob, and have hot water waiting. Every bit of cleanliness becomes something you have to plan, protect, and sometimes fight for.

And if you’re like me…
you don’t just want to survive out here.

You want to feel human.

Clean Doesn’t Mean Perfect

Let me say this first—because it matters.

You are not going to feel freshly showered every single day.
And that’s okay.

Clean in van life doesn’t mean perfect.
It means maintained, managed, and not giving up on yourself.

There were days in the beginning where I felt defeated.
Sweaty. Dusty. Uncomfortable.

But I learned something important:

There is always a way to reset.

My Go-To Ways to Stay Clean

1. Baby Wipes Are Non-Negotiable

If you live in a van, wipes are gold.

I keep them within arm’s reach at all times.

• Quick wipe-down in the morning

• Freshen up before bed

• Emergency clean-up after a long day

It’s not glamorous—but it works.

And sometimes, that small act of wiping your face and arms can completely shift your mood.

2. Sink Baths (The Real Kind)

When I can access a restroom—gas station, park, wherever—I take full advantage.

I’ll use:

• A small cloth or paper towels

• Soap and water

• Privacy and speed

Face, underarms, neck, and anywhere that needs attention.

It’s not a long shower.
But it’s enough to feel like myself again.

3. Gym Membership = Sanity

If you can afford it, this is one of the best investments you can make.

A basic membership at a place like Planet Fitness gives you:

• Hot showers

• Clean restrooms

• A place to exist without being questioned

And honestly… sometimes it’s not even about working out.

It’s about walking in, closing that shower curtain, and feeling normal again for 10 minutes.

4. Laundromat Days Are Reset Days

Dirty clothes pile up fast in a small space.

I’ve learned to treat laundry day like a full reset:

• Wash everything

• Dry everything completely

• Fold and reorganize

There’s something powerful about putting on clean clothes when everything else feels uncertain.

It changes your mindset.

5. Dry Shampoo & Simple Grooming

Hair can make you feel either put together… or completely defeated.

I keep it simple:

• Dry shampoo when needed

• Hair tied back on rough days

• Brush it out no matter what

You don’t need perfection.

You just need to not give up on yourself.

6. Water Storage = Freedom

Even a small water container changes everything.

• Quick hand wash

• Rinse your face

• Brush your teeth anywhere

It gives you control.

And in van life, control over the little things matters more than you’d think.

The Emotional Side of Staying Clean

This isn’t just about hygiene.

It’s about dignity.

There are moments out here where you can start to feel invisible… or less than… or like you’ve slipped too far from your old life.

Staying clean—however you can—is a way of saying:

“I still matter.”

Even if it’s just wiping your face in the morning.
Even if it’s putting on a clean shirt.

You are reminding yourself that you’re still here… and you’re still worth taking care of.

Final Truth

You will have hard days.

Days where you feel uncomfortable.
Days where nothing feels clean.

But if you build small habits—wipes, water, routines—you’ll always find your way back.

Not perfect.
But steady.

And sometimes, steady is everything.

If You’re Living This Life Too…

You’re not alone.

And you’re not doing it wrong.

You’re learning, adapting, and surviving in a way most people will never understand.

And that deserves respect.

Thanks for reading!

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

.