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

.

People ask me this more than anything:

“How much does it actually cost to live in a van?”

They’re usually expecting a simple answer.

A number.

But it’s not that simple.

Living this way doesn’t eliminate expenses.

It changes them.

At 75, I live in my van and manage every dollar carefully.

I don’t spend money unless I need to.

But there are still things that don’t go away:

Food.

Gas.

Phone.

Power.

And all the little things people don’t think about.

Food is one of my biggest priorities.

I don’t live on junk.

I cook real meals. I make choices that support my health, my strength, and my immune system.

That means I spend differently than someone trying to get by on the cheapest food possible.

And I’m okay with that.

Gas is another reality.

You don’t stay in one place all the time.

You move for safety.

You move for comfort.

You move because you have to.

And that costs money.

Then there are the small daily expenses.

A coffee.

Ice.

Something you didn’t plan for.

They don’t seem like much in the moment—but they add up.

There are things I don’t pay anymore.

No rent.

No utilities.

No property expenses.

That changes everything.

But it doesn’t mean life is free.

This life requires awareness.

You think before you spend.

You prioritize what matters.

You adjust constantly.

Some days are easier than others.

Some months are tighter than others.

But I’ve learned how to make it work.

If you’re thinking about living this way—or already doing it—this is what I would tell you:

Be honest about your spending.

Plan for more than you expect.

And focus on what actually matters.

I wrote a short guide breaking down exactly what I spend each month, what costs more than expected, and how I manage money day to day living in my van.

Thanks for reading!

Kindly,

Carol

Get It Here

In this life, every dollar matters

Leave a comment

.

Where I sleep is not random.

It’s not just about finding a place to park.

It’s about making a decision that affects how I feel for the entire night—whether I rest, or whether I stay awake listening to every sound outside my van.

During the day, everything looks different.

A parking lot feels ordinary.
A quiet street feels harmless.

But at night, those same places can change completely.

And when you live in your vehicle, you learn that quickly.

I don’t stay in the same place every night.

I don’t create patterns.

Because once you become predictable, you’re easier to notice.

And being noticed is not always a good thing.

Some nights, I stay where there are other vehicles around.

Truck stops.
Certain parking lots.

Places where I don’t stand out.

Not too crowded. Not too empty.

There’s a balance I look for now.

I’ve learned there are places I won’t sleep anymore.

Empty lots where no one is around.
Dark areas that feel hidden.
Residential streets where people watch and report you.

I’ve tried some of those before.

And I don’t take those chances anymore.

If something doesn’t feel right, I leave.

Even if I’ve already settled in.
Even if I’m tired.

That feeling is there for a reason.

And I’ve learned not to ignore it.

There’s a routine I follow every night.

Doors locked immediately.
Keys within reach.
Phone charged and close.
Windows covered.

And I do not open the door for anyone.

There are nights when I hear things that make me pause.

A car pulling in nearby.
Footsteps.
Voices.

You learn to stay aware.

Not panicked. Not frozen.

Just aware.

People talk about van life like it’s freedom.

And sometimes it is.

But what they don’t talk about is the constant awareness that comes with it.

You’re always paying attention.

Always thinking ahead.

Especially as a woman alone.

This life teaches you quickly.

You learn to trust yourself.
You learn to move when something feels off.
You learn that where you sleep matters more than anything else.

If you’re living this way—or thinking about it—I’ll tell you this:

Don’t worry about what looks good.

Worry about what feels safe.

That’s what matters.

I wrote a short guide sharing exactly how I choose where to sleep, the places I avoid, and the routine I follow every night to stay safe.

You can get it here

Leave a comment

Night is different.

Everything changes when it gets dark.

The same place that felt fine during the day can feel completely different at night. Quieter. Less predictable. Sometimes…off.

And when you’re living in a van, alone, you notice that difference.

I don’t take chances with where I sleep.

At 75, I don’t have the luxury of ignoring my instincts or hoping for the best.

Where I park matters.

How I prepare matters.

Every single night.

I don’t stay in the same place over and over again.

I don’t create patterns.

Because once you become predictable, you become easier to find.

That’s something I learned early on.

Some nights I park where there are other vehicles around.

Truck stops. Certain parking lots. Places where I don’t stand out.

Not too crowded. Not too empty.

There’s a balance to it.

Too isolated, and you’re completely on your own.

Too busy, and you draw attention.

There are places I won’t sleep anymore.

Empty lots.
Dark areas.
Residential streets where people watch and report you.

I’ve learned to listen to that feeling when something isn’t right.

If it feels off, I leave.

I don’t wait to see what happens.

Every night, I go through the same routine.

Doors locked immediately.
Keys within reach.
Phone charged and close by.
Windows covered.

And I do not open the door for anyone.

There are nights when every sound feels too close.

A car door.
Footsteps.
Voices in the distance.

You learn to stay aware.

Not scared—aware.

There’s a difference.

People like to talk about van life like it’s freedom.

And sometimes it is.

But what they don’t talk about is the constant awareness you carry with you.

You’re always paying attention.
Always thinking ahead.

Especially as a woman alone.

This life teaches you quickly.

You learn to trust yourself.

You learn to move when something feels wrong.

You learn that safety isn’t something you think about once—it’s something you think about every night.

If you’re thinking about this life, or already living it, I would tell you this:

Don’t ignore your instincts.

Don’t worry about what something looks like.

Worry about how it feels.

Because that feeling is there for a reason.

I wrote a short guide sharing exactly how I choose where to sleep, the places I avoid, and the routine I follow every night to stay safe.

You can get it here

Safety isn’t optional in this life, it’s everything.

Leave a comment

This is just real life.

This morning, I cooked eggs and bacon in my van.

I made oatmeal and a piece of toast.
And I made my smoothie—the one thing I try not to skip.

That smoothie matters to me. It’s one of the ways I make sure my body is getting what it needs, especially at my age.

Because at 75, I don’t have the luxury of neglecting my health.

I don’t eat the way most people expect someone in a van to eat.

I don’t live on junk food.
I avoid as much sugar and salt as I can.
And I don’t just grab whatever is cheap and easy.

I’ve learned something very clearly:

Food is medicine.

Later in the day, I checked my crock pot.

I had a pot of pinto beans going.

I make them a few times a week—not just for myself, but because if I come across someone who’s hungry, I want to be able to offer them something warm.

That matters to me.

Even living like this, I don’t want to lose my kindness.

People assume you can’t really cook in a van.

But I do.

I’ve made it work because it’s important to me.

I use a small setup:

• A hot pot

• A crock pot

• A foldable kettle

• And a small propane burner if my power runs low

I even keep a refrigerator and freezer.

That alone changes everything.

I keep eggs, meat, frozen fruit, and ingredients for my smoothies.

I keep fish.

I keep food that will actually support my body—not just fill me up.

Because this life is already hard enough.

Your health shouldn’t make it harder.

There are days when it would be easier to just not bother.

To eat whatever is quick.

To let it slide.

But I know what’s at stake.

Strength.
Energy.
The ability to keep going.

So I choose to take care of myself anyway.

This life strips a lot away.

But it also makes you more aware of what matters.

And for me, food is one of those things.

If you’re thinking about van life, or already in it, I’ll tell you this:

Don’t give up on your health.

Find a way to cook—even if it’s simple.
Eat in a way that supports your body.

Because you’re going to need your strength.

I wrote a short guide sharing exactly how I eat each day, how I cook in a small space, and how I stay healthy living this way.

Get It Here

Living in a vehicle wasn’t something I dreamed about.
It was something I had to figure out.

And at my age… doing it alone…
there were moments I didn’t feel safe, didn’t feel sure, didn’t feel ready.

But I kept going.

Over time, I learned what actually works—and what doesn’t.

Not the polished version you see online.
The real version.

How to sleep without hurting your body.
Where to park without being woken up in the middle of the night.
How to stay safe when you’re alone.
How to get through the loneliness… and the fear.

I put everything I’ve learned into a guide.

Not perfect.
Not fancy.
Just real.

If you’re trying to figure this life out—or think you might have to someday—this will help you.

Living in a vehicle wasn’t something I dreamed about.
It was something I had to figure out.

And at my age… doing it alone…
there were moments I didn’t feel safe, didn’t feel sure, didn’t feel ready.

But I kept going.

Over time, I learned what actually works—and what doesn’t.

Not the polished version you see online.
The real version.

How to sleep without hurting your body.
Where to park without being woken up in the middle of the night.
How to stay safe when you’re alone.
How to get through the loneliness… and the fear.

I put everything I’ve learned into a guide.

Not perfect.
Not fancy.
Just real.

If you’re trying to figure this life out—or think you might have to someday—this will help you.

👉 Get the guide here: Get the guide

I didn’t plan for my life to look like this.

Living in a vehicle wasn’t something I dreamed about.
It was something I had to figure out.

And at my age… doing it alone…
there were moments I didn’t feel safe, didn’t feel sure, didn’t feel ready.

But I kept going.

Over time, I learned what actually works—and what doesn’t.

Not the polished version you see online.
The real version.

How to sleep without hurting your body.
Where to park without being woken up in the middle of the night.
How to stay safe when you’re alone.
How to get through the loneliness… and the fear.

I put everything I’ve learned into a guide.

Not perfect.
Not fancy.
Just real.

If you’re trying to figure this life out—or think you might have to someday—this will help you.

You’re not alone in this. Get the guide

Thanks for reading.

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

You work hard. You pay your bills. You keep your life in order. And slowly, you build something that feels solid. Predictable and safe.

That was my life when I raised my children back in beautiful Hot Springs, Arkansas.

Or at least, that’s what I believed.

Because the truth is, stability doesn’t always disappear in one loud moment. Sometimes it leaves, quietly, like air leaking out of a tire you didn’t know was flat.

At first, its small things.

A missed payment. A bill you set aside “just for now”. A little more stress than usual.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. You’ll catch up. You always do.

But then something else happens. And something else after that.

And before you even realize what’s going on, the life you built, the one that felt so secure, starts shifting underneath your feet.

I didn’t see it coming the way I thought I would. There was no warning siren. No big dramatic collapse.

Just a series of moments that didn’t seem like they mattered at the time.

Until they did. Until everything did.

There’s a kind of shock that comes with it. A quiet disbelief.

You wake up one day and realize you’re not who you used to be. You’re not living the life you thought you’d always have.

And the hardest part? The world doesn’t stop.

People still go to work. Stores are still open. Life keeps moving like nothing has changed.

But everything has changed for me. I’m 75 years old and I can’t do the things I used to do anymore. That’s okay with me. I need a new adventure anyway.

How quickly things can turn. And how close most of us actually are. Right?

And there’s something humbling in that realization. Something that strips away judgment.

Because once you’ve lived it, once you’ve felt that ground shift beneath you, you don’t look at people the same way anymore.

You see how easy it is to fall.

And how hard it is to climb back.

I’m not writing this from a place of having it all figured out. I’m writing this from inside the experience. From the in-between. From the place where things are still uncertain. Isn’t that “life” though?

But here’s what I do know.

If life can fall apart faster than you ever imagined, it can also change again. Not in the same way. Not back to what it was. But forward. Because when everything is stripped away, you find out what’s actually holding you up.

And sometimes, it’s not the things you thought. It’s you! Still here, still trying, and still standing in whatever way you can.

And that counts for more than most people will ever understand.

Because stability isn’t just what you build. It’s what you become when everything you built is gone.

Starting over is never easy for anyone. Being evicted from your home to your car or van or whatever vehicle you may have is not going to be easy, but be thankful for what you do and, with super gratitude, you will build a new life, maybe better than the old one.

Thanks for reading.

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

I didn’t write this from a desk.
I wrote it from inside my vehicle.

This isn’t van life for fun.
This is survival.

Life changed fast, and I had to figure out how to make it through — where to sleep, how to stay safe, how to deal with the heat, how to eat… how to keep going.

I put everything I’ve learned into a guide.
The real truth about living this way — the parts no one talks about.

If you’re curious, struggling, or facing something similar…

Get the guide here.

Kindly,

Carol

There’s a kind of quiet loneliness that doesn’t make noise. It doesn’t come crashing in like grief or fear, but slips in quietly, sits down beside you and stays.

Everyone gets lonely at one time or another. Even children get that feeling sometimes.

I used to think loneliness meant being alone. But that’s not it. I like myself—I even like to talk to myself out here, living alone in the Sonoran Desert. Well, I’m not actually alone—my Tibetan Terrier—Thumper is always by my side. He keeps me busy while taking care of his needs, and he knows how to be still and quiet while I’m working on my novel “Smitty”.

Inside the van, everything is close at hand. Less is more, and everything removed has to be placed back in its place, otherwise, it becomes chaotic, and I can’t find anything when I need it.

My bed is a few inches from where I sit. My belongings are stacked, folded, tucked into corners. There’s no space for clutter, no room for excess.

But somehow, inside something so small, there’s a space that feels endless. That’s the part I didn’t expect.

The physical space shrinks, but the emotional space—expands. And in this space, deep thoughts come.

I think about the life I’ve had. I think about my Louisiana and Mississippi family that I was born into, and I thank God every day for them.

Stability has a sound to it. You don’t notice it when you have it. But you notice the silence when it’s gone.

Out here, everything becomes intentional.

Nothing just happens. And that includes connections.

There are people, of course.

You see them. You pass them. Sometimes you exchange a few words. A glance. A nod. Occasionally kindness shows up in ways you don’t expect, and it stays with you longer than it probably would have before.

But it’s not the same. It’s moments. And moments, no matter how meaningful, don’t always fill the space.

But I find my community on Substack brings me joy, and I don’t feel so alone. Plus, I love people and I reach out, and I like my alone time with just my pet. Solitude is mandatory for me at times.

Balance is the key to a good life.

Something steady. Something that doesn’t disappear, even when everything else feels like it has.

Maybe it’s resilience. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s something deeper that I don’t fully understand yet.

But it’s there.

And I’m still here. In the quiet. In the space. In the life I didn’t plan, but I’m living, anyway. I have no regrets.

Even in loneliness. There’s something holding me in place. Not fixing it. Not filling it. But keeping me here.

Thanks for reading.

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

By midnight, it was still over 100 degrees.

The kind of heat that doesn’t sit on your skin—it presses in.
It fills the van, the cushions, the air you’re trying to breathe.
There’s no escaping it. Not really.

I had the windows cracked as far as I dared.

You learn quickly that safety and comfort don’t always go together.
You choose one.

I sat there in the dark, not sleeping, just waiting for the hours to pass.
Listening.

A car pulling in.\paywall

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An engine idling too long.
Footsteps that may or may not be coming closer.

When you live like this, you don’t ever fully rest.
You drift. You listen. You stay ready.

I used to think of nighttime as something peaceful.
A time to settle in, to turn off the day.

Now it’s something else.

Night is when the questions get louder.

How long can I keep doing this?
Where will I park tomorrow?
What happens if something goes wrong out here?

And still—morning comes.

It always does.

There are small victories you don’t think about until this becomes your life.

Finding a place where no one knocks on your window.
A breeze, even a small one.
Waking up and realizing nothing bad happened during the night.

That counts for something.

I’m 75 years old, and this is where I am.

Not where I planned to be.
But still here. Still moving forward.

Still writing it down.

This is part of what this life really looks like.

The parts most people don’t see.

If you want to follow the full journey—and support this work—you can become a paid subscriber.

Because stories like this don’t get told unless someone is still here to tell them.

—Carol

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The first night I slept in my van in Phoenix, it was still over 100 degrees at midnight.

I thought I was prepared. I wasn’t.

Cracking the windows didn’t help. The heat just sat there, heavy. Cars passed. People walked by. Nobody knew I was inside.

It hit me—this isn’t the “van life” you see online.
No fairy lights. No scenic mornings. Just sweat, anxiety, and the constant awareness that you don’t fully belong anywhere.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Not because I couldn’t—but because part of me had to stay alert.

\paywall

What most people don’t understand is this:

Van life—or living without a stable home—isn’t just about where you sleep. It’s about how your mind changes when you realize you don’t fully belong anywhere.

• The routines you develop to feel “normal”

• The decisions you make that surprise even you

• The way your thinking shifts without warning

Thanks for reading,

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

Paid subscribers get the full story: what actually happens after that first night—the parts most people never talk about.

If you want the full, unfiltered version of these experiences, subscribe now.

I’m really glad you found your way here.

I’m 75 years old, and I live in a van.
Not as a vacation. Not as a phase. This is my life.

This Substack is where I write about what that actually looks like—
the quiet days, the hard days, and everything in between.

You’ll read stories about survival, homelessness in America, and what it means to start over later in life when most people think your story is already finished.

If you’re here, there’s probably a reason.

Maybe you’ve had to start over yourself.
Maybe you’re trying to understand a life most people never see.
Or maybe something in you just knows these stories matter.

If you’d like a place to begin, you can start here:

• My story → (1) No Fixed Address: The Rise of Women Living Alone in Vans

• A recent day from the road → https://www.graycampervanwriter.com/publish/posts/detail/192138247

Some posts are free.

Some go deeper—for those who want to support this work and follow the full journey as it unfolds.

If you believe stories like this should be told, your support helps me stay on the road—and keep telling the truth.

Thank you for being here.

—Carol

The American dream used to mean a lease signed and a key handed over. But with national apartment rents averaging $1,640 per month in 2026, more people are asking a different question: what if the van is the apartment?

Let’s do the math.

What Renting Really Costs

A one-bedroom apartment across the U.S. runs between $1,600 and $2,200 per month — and that’s before you add utilities ($200–$400), renter’s insurance ($15–$30), and parking if you live in a city ($100–$300). In a relatively affordable city like Tucson, Arizona, you’re still looking at around $988/month just for the unit itself — which is 40% below the national average and still a significant monthly obligation.

Add it all up and a modest apartment lifestyle costs $1,300–$2,900 per month, depending on where you live.

What Van Life Really Costs

Van life isn’t free — but it is flexible. Monthly expenses typically fall between $800 and $2,000, with the biggest variables being how much you drive and whether you pay for campsites or rely on free public land. One real-life comparison tracked four months of apartment living at $3,307/month versus five months of van life at $2,597/month — a savings of $710 per month, or over $8,500 per year.

That’s not pocket change. That’s a van repair fund, a travel budget, or an emergency cushion.

Side-by-Side: The Real Cost Breakdown

ExpenseApartment (Monthly)Van Life (Monthly)Rent / Van payment$1,600–$2,200$200–$500 (loan or paid off)Utilities$200–$400$0–$50 (solar)Insurance$15–$30 (renters)$100–$180 (vehicle)Food & Groceries$300–$600$250–$600Fuel$150–$250$200–$600Parking$0–$300$0–$300 (campsites)Internet / Phone$50–$100$50–$135Maintenance$0–$50$40–$300Estimated Total$2,315–$3,930$840–$2,665

The Hidden Costs Nobody Mentions

Van life comes with real trade-offs. Gym memberships for showers (Planet Fitness is a van lifer staple),or you can build your own shower (using solar) laundromat visits averaging $55/month, or wash your own clothes by hand or with a small electric washing machine that typically washes about 4 pounds of clothing at once, and unexpected mechanical repairs can quietly inflate your budget. And if you need daily city commuting with paid parking, the math tips back toward apartment living.

On the flip side, apartments carry their own hidden costs: application fees, security deposits, annual rent increases, and the psychological weight of a 12-month lease.

The Bottom Line

Van life can be meaningfully cheaper than renting — potentially saving $500–$1,000 per month — but only if you embrace the lifestyle intentionally. It rewards those who cook their own meals, use free camping on public lands, and stay flexible with their routes. For anyone tired of watching rent eat their paycheck, the open road is starting to look like a very sound financial decision.

Thanks for reading!

Kindly,

Carol

Leave a comment

If you’ve been reading my newsletter for a while, you know I’ve been on this journey for a bit. And the more I research, the more I realize van life isn’t just for young minimalists with Instagram accounts and trust funds. It’s quietly becoming one of the most practical solutions for people like me — teachers, writers, and remote workers who need a home base that moves with them.

Why This Lifestyle Makes Sense for Us?

Think about what teachers, writers, and remote workers all have in common: we work from laptops. We keep odd hours. We don’t need a physical office — we need Wi-Fi, a quiet space, and enough electricity to keep our devices running.

A converted van or minivan can give you all three. A modest solar setup — something in the 400-watt range paired with a good power station — handles a laptop, phone charging, a small fan, and lighting without breaking a sweat. I’ve been deep in the research on Bluetti and Renogy systems, and the technology has gotten genuinely affordable in the last few years.

For teachers like me doing virtual instruction, the ability to park in a quiet spot and log into Canvas from anywhere is a significant change. Imagine finishing your school day, closing the laptop, and being parked at a BLM campsite in the Arizona desert by evening. That’s not a fantasy. That’s a Tuesday.

What about the money?

Here’s the part nobody wants to talk about plainly: housing costs are brutal right now. Rent in most cities consumes half of a teacher’s salary. Writers rarely earn a stable income, especially early on. Remote workers are often trading job security for flexibility, which is wonderful until the lease renews.

Van life slashes your biggest monthly expense to near zero. No rent. No mortgage. Campsite fees on BLM land? Free. A weekly spot at an RV park when you want a shower and laundry? Roughly $150–$250. That’s it. The math is almost embarrassing once you run it.

I’m building my Substack while I plan this transition — because I believe this story needs to be told by someone actually living it, not just theorizing from a comfortable apartment.

You don’t have to be young or fearless

What I want you to take away from this is simple: van life is not a young person’s game anymore. It’s a smart person’s option. Whether you’re a teacher burned out on paying rent in an expensive city, a writer who needs flexibility to follow your work, or a remote worker who wants to stop feeding a landlord every month — the road is open to you.

I’m figuring it out one step at a time, and I’m taking you with me. That’s what this newsletter is for.

Drop a comment and tell me — have you ever seriously considered van life? What’s the one thing holding you back?

The house you can’t afford and the van that makes sense

Let me tell you something that nobody in a school district meeting will say out loud: teachers can no longer afford to live in the communities where they teach.

That’s not an opinion. That’s a fact backed by hard numbers. Between 2019 and 2025, housing costs in this country rose by 47 to 51 percent. Teacher salaries? They grew about 24 percent. In some cities, a beginning teacher hands over more than 45 cents of every dollar they earn straight to a landlord — before groceries, before gas, before a single bill gets paid. This isn’t a personal finance problem. This is a systemic failure, and it is pushing talented, dedicated people out of the profession entirely.

I’ve been in education most of my life. And I am telling you — van life is starting to look less like a quirky lifestyle choice and more like a rational response to a broken system.

The math nobody wants to do

In St. Paul, Minnesota, teacher salaries went up 20 percent between 2019 and 2025. Rents went up 51 percent in the same period. Read that again. Rents went up more than twice as fast as pay. In Anoka-Hennepin, same story — 21 percent salary growth, 51 percent rent increase. And these aren’t coastal cities with Manhattan price tags. These are ordinary American towns where ordinary teachers are quietly drowning.

Writers and remote workers aren’t in much better shape. The average home price in America now sits above $416,000. A down payment alone — even a modest one — can run $20,000 to $80,000. For a freelance writer or a remote worker on a contract basis, that number might as well be written in a foreign language.

Meanwhile, van life communities are actually growing in 2026 — not because people are chasing adventure, but because they are doing the math and choosing sanity over debt.

This is a housing crisis disguised as a lifestyle trend

Here’s what bothers me most: when people see someone living in a van, the first instinct is pity. Or judgment. They must have made bad choices. They must be irresponsible.

What if they just did the math?

What if the schoolteacher in the converted Chrysler Pacifica parked at the BLM campsite outside Tucson isn’t a cautionary tale — but a pioneer? What if she figured out something the rest of us are still too scared to admit? She cut her largest monthly expense down to nearly zero. She kept her job. She kept her dignity. She kept her savings.

I’m not romanticizing poverty. I’ve written about homelessness right here in this newsletter for four years now, and I take that crisis seriously. There is a profound difference between someone forced onto the streets with no options and someone making a deliberate, strategic choice to opt out of an extractive housing market. We have to hold both truths at once.

What teachers, writers, and remote workers can actually do

The beauty of van life for people in our professions is that we already work from screens. A teacher doing virtual instruction needs Wi-Fi and a quiet space — not a two-bedroom apartment at $1,800 a month. A writer needs a laptop, good light, and solitude. A remote worker needs a reliable power source and an internet connection.

A properly set up van gives you all of that. Four hundred watts of solar on the roof. A solid lithium battery system. A hotspot. A comfortable workspace. Total monthly overhead that can run under $300 if you know what you’re doing.

That is nothing. For a lot of people reading this right now, that number is the difference between barely surviving and actually building something.

The bigger picture

I believe van life, and other alternative housing choices like tiny homes and co-housing, are the beginning of something larger. People are quietly opting out of a housing market that has decided their labor is worth less than a landlord’s investment portfolio. Teachers, writers, remote workers — we built this country’s intellectual and creative backbone. We deserve better than being priced out of it.

Until the system catches up, some of us are going to keep driving toward the sunrise.

And I’ll be right here, writing about every mile of it.

If this hit home, share it with a teacher, a writer, or anyone you know who’s quietly exhausted by the cost of just having a roof over their head. And leave a comment — I read every one.

Thanks for reading!

Kindly,

Carol

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Note 2 — Wednesday, April 2

(Personal and provocative)

Note 3 — Thursday, April 3

(Question to drive comments)

Note 4 — Saturday, April 5

(Housing advocacy angle — strong opinion)

Note 5 — Monday, April 7

(Keeps momentum going into the following week)

S

Your Copy-Paste Plan

Easier — Use the Google Doc on Your Phone

Ip

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Prepared using Claude Sonnet 4.6

I’m sitting in a Walmart parking lot in Mesa, Arizona right now, watching the sun go down behind the Superstition Mountains. Two rows over, I can see a Dodge Caravan with curtains in the windows and a small solar panel propped up on the dash. I’ve seen that van for three days running.

Yesterday morning I walked over and introduced myself. The woman inside — I’ll call her Donna — is 68 years old, a retired school aide from Phoenix, and she has been living in that minivan for seven months. She told me she gave up her apartment when her landlord raised the rent by $400 in a single year. Her Social Security check is $1,190 a month. The new rent would have been $1,350. The math didn’t work. The van did.

Donna is not alone. Not by a long shot.

The Numbers Tell the Story

According to a 2025 report from the National Alliance to End Homelessness, the fastest-growing segment of the unhoused and housing-insecure population in America is women over the age of 60. Many of them are not sleeping on sidewalks. They are sleeping in Chrysler Pacificas, Toyota Siennas, and cargo vans in parking lots just like this one.

A 2025 joint survey by the Pew Research Center and the Urban Institute found that nearly 28% of single women between the ages of 60 and 75 now spend more than 50% of their monthly income on housing. At that rate, a single unexpected medical bill, a car repair, or a missed shift can tip a woman from housed to unhoused almost overnight.

And here is what the data doesn’t always show: a lot of these women are making a deliberate choice. They are choosing their vehicle over a lease they cannot sustain. They are choosing mobility over a zip code that is pricing them out.

Why Women, and Why Now?

Women outlive men by an average of five to six years in the United States, which means they face more years of rising costs on fixed incomes — and more years of doing it alone. Divorce, widowhood, and the wage gap all leave older women with significantly less retirement savings than their male counterparts. According to the National Institute on Retirement Security, women retire with about 30% less savings than men on average.

Add to that the fact that affordable housing waitlists in most major cities now run anywhere from three to ten years, and you begin to understand why a paid-off minivan starts to look like a reasonable solution.

What Van Life Looks Like for Survival Dwellers

It doesn’t always look like the Instagram version, I promise you that. There are no $400 rooftop tents or matching linen curtains. But there is real ingenuity. Women like Donna are learning solar power out of necessity. They are finding BLM land and safe parking programs. They are connecting online through private Facebook groups where they share tips on where to shower, where to park safely overnight, and which truck stops have the cleanest restrooms.

Safety is the biggest concern, and it is valid. Solo women in vehicles face real risks. But many of these women will tell you that the risks of van life feel more manageable than the risk of signing a lease they cannot afford and ending up on the street with nothing.

A Different Kind of Freedom

Before I walked back to my own vehicle last night, Donna said something that stuck with me. She said, “I wake up every morning and I know exactly what I owe and exactly what I have. That peace of mind? I didn’t have that in my apartment.”

That is not a fairy tale version of van life. That is a woman who did the math, made a hard call, and is navigating it with more dignity than the housing market ever gave her.

If you are a woman thinking about this life — whether by necessity or by choice — I see you. And I want you to know there is a whole community of us out here figuring it out one parking lot at a time.

Thanks for reading!

Kindly,

Carol

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As I sit here on a warm March morning in S. Tucson, I’m looking out over a sea of white fiberglass and aluminum. The RV park is packed. but what hits me isn’t just the number of campervans and RVs; it’s the silver hair behind the steering wheel.

I often write about the freedom of the open road in this newsletter, but lately, the conversations around the campfire pits have taken a heavier turn. For a growing number of us in our 60s, 70s, this lifestyle isn’t just a wanderlust-fueled retirement dream. It’s an economic lifeboat.

Economic Data From The Past Year

Let’s look at the hard numbers, because the economic data from the past year paints a stark picture of why the “Gray Wave” is flooding into RV parks.

According to recent data from “Hud Housing”, the number of senior households considered “severely cost-burdened”__meaning they spend more than half their income on housing, has nearly doubled over the past two decades to an astonishing 11.7 million people. The Harvard Joint Center for Housing Studies confirms this grim reality, noting that approximately one-third of older adult households are now cost-burdened.

When you are forced on a fixed income, giving up 50% or more of your Social Security check just to keep a roof over your head leaves practically nothing for food, gas, or medicine. And speaking of healthcare, a recent report highlighted that fewer than 15% of single adults aged 75 or older can afford the combined costs of traditional housing and long-term care. The math simply no longer works for the average American retiree.

People Are Forced into the Fast Lane

So, what happens when traditional rent becomes a mathematical impossibility? You downsize drastically.

Out here in the real world in 2026, we are seeing the direct result of this inflation fatigue. A recent 2026 housing documentary highlighted that in many long-term RV parks across the country, 40%-60% of permanent residents are now over the age of 65.

We aren’t just taking week-end trips anymore.

The DYRT’s recent camping report revealed that nearly 33% of all campers are 55 and older, and a staggering 61% of campers in that age bracket list an RV or camper as their primary home.

They traded skyrocketing property taxes and relentless rent hikes for lot fees and gas mileage.

For many seniors, the open road wasn’t just a choice; it was the only affordable address left in America.

Thanks for reading!

Kindly,

Carol

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It's 5:00 AM as I sit here in my camper van in Tucson drinking my morning coffee. I starting writing in my journal and was reminded of how freeing it is to no longer worry about a landlord. For many seniors on fixed incomes the monthly dread of paying for traditional housing has evolved from a mild annoyance into a full blown financial crisis.

In early 2026, the medium asking rent in the US remains extremely high, hovering around $1700 a month, while real estate reports might claim the rental market is slowly stabilizing. Prices are still over 15% higher than they were before the pandemic. When nearly half of your fixed income goes straight to a property management company you aren't truly living; You're just surviving an unforgiving economic landscape.

Silent Demographic Crisis

Affordable housing no longer exists in America. The severe lack of affordability has created an epidemic of housing insecurity all across America.

Older Americans living on a fixed income simply cannot keep up with inflation.

I’ve met so many single women who were abruptly priced out of their homes and pushed into mobile living. It wasn’t because they mismanaged their retirement savings; it’s just that the cost of making a living far outweighed their fixed income.

Financial and Professional Freedom

By choosing to live in my Gray camper van, my monthly overhead from apartment living has plummeted way down to just vehicle maintenance, gas, food, and a little butane for my stove. I use solar to offset some of my expenses.

This financial breathing room allows me to comfortably handle my full time virtual teacher job without the constant stress of impending bills. With the truth being told, I can easily set up my teaching platform with a reliable Internet connection and work just as efficiently from the open desert as I could from any costly city apartment or house. Plus, I love the wide-open outdoor view.

Reclaiming Our Independence

The van life certainly requires adjustments, like learning to live with less stuff, but the trade off is unparalleled personal freedom. I get to wake up to inspiring new horizons, engage with a vibrant nomadic community, and sleep soundly knowing I'm not a rent hike away from eviction. Really, the camper van isn't a symbol of homelessness, it is a safe, sufficient, mobile sanctuary that proves the real adventure begins when you finally stop paying rent.

Thank you for reading www.GrayCamperVanWriter.com If you are navigating alternative housing or just curious about the lifestyle, subscribe to www.graycampervanwriter.com and join me on this journey.

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They simply arrived there the way many people do, one decision at a time, until temporary turns into a life you can carry behind a 1979 Ford pickup. Their camper sits a little off the beaten path, close enough to town for groceries and prescriptions, far enough to hear coyotes at night and feel the sky open up when the sun goes down.

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If you look into the back window of the silver 2014 Dodge Caravan parked near the lakefront, you might just see a pair of green eyes blinking back. That's my calico cat and usually I'm right behind her, bundled in fleece, reading a library book by the light of a solar-powered lantern.

This isn't the glossy Instagram van life you see on social media. There are no reclaimed wood counters or expensive solar setups. Here my caravan is strictly functional. It’s a lifeboat for me.

My Part-time Walmart Job

A few years ago, the math just stopped making sense. My part-time Walmart job as a stocker paid enough for food and rent, but rarely enough for both in a city where prices kept climbing.

The stress of paying rent on the first of the month, was literally making me sick. I was working just to pay for a box to sleep in between shifts.

So, I let the apartment go. I had no choice. I took my small savings and made a down payment on the Dodge, ripped out the back seats and threw down a foam mattress.

I had plenty of heavy blankets and a subzero king size sleeping bag that kept me toasty warm. My Mr. Buddy heater was shut off during my sleeping hours. There was no need to waste propane.

Living in a vehicle in Milwaukee requires grit. The winters here don't mess around. You learn quickly which parking spots block the wind off of Lake Michigan and how many layers of wool are necessary to make it through a February night when it's 10 degrees outside. You learn the rhythm of public restrooms and which Planet Fitness is cleaner.

But here is the surprising part the thing I didn't expect: the Peace of Mind that I get.

When I finish my shift, I don't dread driving home to an eviction notice taped to my front door. My overhead is low; gas, insurance, a phone bill, and food for me and Star. My part- time wages which used to feel pathetic, now feel sufficient and sometimes I have a little money left over. I have downsized my life to the absolute essentials and there is a profound freedom in that. I don't own anything I don't use every single day.

In the evenings with the doors locked and Star curled up heavy and warm on my chest, the city noise fades away. It's a small life. It's sometimes a cold life. I get lonely at times, but who doesn't?

Star at her Best

I've learned how to take care of my personal needs living in a small space. I eat healthy while reducing my stress of making a living. It's not a glamorous life, but it's mine. It certainly isn't what I pictured for my 60s, but it is manageable. And tonight, listening to Star Purr in the quiet dark of the van; that is enough for me. I felt blessed!

Thanks for reading!

Carol

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Morning settles over New Orleans

Life a warm, damp homemade quilt, heavy with the smell of chicory coffee and river mist, Eva stirs, rubbing her eyes to wake up.

“Pip?” she whispers, voice rough from the night. You alright this morning, Baby?

A tiny nose pokes out from the gap in her coat followed by two anxious brown eyes. Pip lets out a soft whine and a little huff of warm breath.

“There you are,” she says, laughing under her breath. “Thought you done run off with some rich lady already.”

Pip shifts closer, all bone and heartbeat, part chihuahua part Vice. Eva opens her coat just enough to let him taste the morning air: powdered sugar from beignets, bacon frying somewhere, and the deep, dark smell of coffee

“Smell that?” she asked him. “That's New Orleans sayin’ good mornin’ to us. Y'all better appreciate it.”

The quarter yawns awake around them. A man pushes a broom over cracked pavement humming a hymn under his breath. A saxophone tests the air with a few wandering notes. A street car clanks past in the distance, the sound rolling over the roofs like thunder that forgot to be scary.

Eva didn't plan to end up on the street. Few people do. She once worked in a diner off Canal Street flipping beignets and humming to the radio. After a hurricane season that never seemed to end, the diner closed, and the small apartment she rented went with it. There were shelters, Eva could have chosen, but none would allow her dog to stay. And leaving pimp? It wasn't an option: he's the only family she has.

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Little 4-year -old Pip who is as smart as a whip, keeps Eva moving. He watches over her while she sleeps, and gives her unconditional love.

They've built a kind of safe home among the cracks. Eva's corner is tidy, a milk crate turned into a side table, and a vase with paper flowers someone brought her last Mardi Gras. She knows the rhythm of the quarter better than most. When the street cars clatter by, when the tourists pass, she smiles sometimes holding a cardboard sign that simply says, “ we're still here.”

Still, there are hard days. The rain comes down in sheets that know no mercy, and sometimes the police move her along before dawn. Eva is use to this; she done it so many times before.

When I asked her once what keeps her hopeful she looks toward the river; “that sound, she said, and the water, the fairies, the laughter from the levee at sunset.

Someday, I hope to find a little place for me and Pip to stay where it’s cool in the summer and warm in the winter, but in the meantime we’re doing just fine.

Thanks for reading!

Carol

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