Locked doors, always. Day or night, moving or parked, my doors stay locked. It sounds simple, but it’s one of those habits that pays off twice: it’s genuinely a smart safety practice, and it also just gives me peace of mind. The second my feet hit the ground when I step out of the vehicle, the doors are locked behind me. No exceptions, no “I’ll just be a minute.” That kind of consistency is what makes a habit actually work — you don’t have to think about it, you just do it.

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There’s a specific kind of tired that doesn’t show up on any blood test. It’s not the flu. It’s not low iron. It’s sixty-some years of cooking dinner, scrubbing pots, folding somebody else’s laundry, and clocking in Monday morning like your knees don’t ache and your back doesn’t have opinions about all of it.

Nobody warns you about this tired. The kind that sits in your shoulders. The kind that makes a full sink of dishes feel like a mountain range. You spend forty years running a household and a job at the same time, and one day you look up and realize your body sent in its resignation letter a while back — you just weren’t listening.

So women start listening. Women over sixty are done. Not done with living — done with the noise of it. Done with the treadmill of tasks that never actually finishes, that just resets every twenty-four hours like a cruel little clock daring you to keep up.

That’s where the crock pot comes in. Throw it all in before nine a.m., walk away, come back to a house that smells like you did something right. The microwave isn’t a failure anymore either — it’s a tool, same as a hammer or a good knife. And the deli case at the grocery store? That’s not giving up on cooking. That’s giving yourself back an hour you’ll never get again. A rotisserie chicken and a bag of salad is a meal. It’s dinner on the table without losing a piece of your evening to a stove.

Same goes for the bills. There was a time women took pride in balancing the checkbook down to the penny, calling the cable company, standing in line to pay the water bill in cash because that’s what you did. But who has the patience anymore for hold music and a stranger named Kevin who can’t find your account? Set the draft up. Let the debit card do what it’s built to do — pay the same bill, the same amount, the same day every month, quiet as a held breath. That’s not laziness. That’s a woman who’s done enough hard things in her life to know when a fight isn’t worth having.

Because here’s the truth nobody says out loud enough: simplifying isn’t shrinking your life. It’s making room in it. Every task you hand off to a crock pot or an auto-pay is an hour you get to keep for yourself. And women over sixty know exactly what they want to do with that hour. They want to sit on the porch and watch the light change. They want to read a book without one eye on the clock. They want to drive somewhere with no destination and no one in the back seat asking when they’ll get there.

The kids are grown. The mortgage is either paid or it isn’t, and either way, you’re too old to keep sprinting after a version of adulthood built for someone with more knees left in them. This is the season for slow mornings and empty afternoons. For dreaming again, the way you did before life filled up every corner of your calendar.

Simpler isn’t settling. Simpler is what you’ve earned. And there’s not a woman over sixty who cooked, cleaned, worked, and raised a family who owes anybody an explanation for wanting some peace back.

Thanks for reading!

Kindly, Carol

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Let’s face it. We’re living in tough inflationary times. Your fixed retirement income cannot keep up with today’s prices. That’s not an opinion, that’s a fact you feel every time you push a cart down a grocery aisle. Seniors are all over YouTube complaining about the cost of food, and they’re right to complain. Eggs, coffee, gas — it all costs more than it did last year, and your check doesn’t.

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Starting Over at 76: My New Beginning

I’m sitting on my front porch in Louisiana right now, and it’s too quiet. That’s the thing nobody tells you about quiet — it doesn’t feel peaceful when it used to belong to somebody. The boards under my feet still creak the same way they always have, that low groan like an old friend clearing his throat, but there’s no tags jingling next to me, no huffing sigh as a little body settles against my ankle. Just me, a glass of tea sweating rings onto the armrest, and a stillness I never asked for.

Thumper’s gone. Buried him last week.

An owl got him outside our camp in Arizona — came down out of that big empty sky faster than either of us could understand, and by the time I got to him he was already broken in ways the vet couldn’t fix. Paralyzed. Crippled. I sat with him on that cold clinic floor and held his face in my hands while he looked at me like he still trusted me to make it right. I couldn’t. I had to let him go instead, and I don’t think there’s a lonelier sound in this world than a room going still after that.

So here I am. Seventy-six years old, taking a short break from the road, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m navigating this life without him. No small shadow trotting ahead of me on the trail. No wet nose against my elbow to wake me up out of a bad dream. Just the porch, and the Volvo sitting quiet in the drive, and the gray camper van out back that still smells a little like him if I get close enough to the passenger seat, which I haven’t been able to do yet.

Grief has a texture out here. It’s the cicadas winding up at dusk, loud enough to fill a silence I can’t fill myself. It’s the smell of rain coming in off the bayou, thick and green, the kind of smell Thumper used to lift his nose into like it was the finest thing God ever made. It’s my own hands, empty in my lap, that used to always have a leash in them or a scrap of kibble or fur to smooth down. I keep reaching for him without meaning to.

I won’t pretend this new beginning is one I wanted. I’d have kept the old one, owl or no owl, if anybody had asked me. But nobody asks. You just wake up one morning on a porch in Louisiana and realize the road ahead of you doesn’t have a co-pilot anymore, and you have to decide whether you’re going to sit here and rot in that fact or get back up.

I’m going to get back up. Not today, maybe. Today I’m allowed to just sit here and feel the ache of him in every board of this porch. But someday — I believe this the way I believe in sunrise — some other four-legged soul is going to find me. Wandering up a gravel road, or waiting in a shelter cage with eyes that know grief when they see it. And I’ll bend down, creaky knees and all, and start learning how to navigate this life all over again.

Until then, it’s just me. Starting over. Missing my buddy something fierce.

Thanks for reading.

Kindly, Carol

I have lived around Shreveport and the surrounding areas for about 27 years. I was born near Monroe and my family dates back over 100 years in Louisiana that I know of. Before that I spent 21 years in the Eastern Ouachita Mountains around Hot Springs, Arkansas and the surrounding little towns. That’s a long time in two places. That’s a whole life, really, divided up between two different kinds of landscape, two different kinds of quiet.

So why am I sitting here at 76 fantasizing about the Western Ouachita Mountains?

I don’t have a good answer. I just know it keeps happening.

It sneaks up on me. I’ll be sitting on my front porch in Louisiana with my coffee, watching the morning come up, perfectly content — and then something shifts. A thought. A pull. What would it be like out there. What would the light look like in the evenings. What would the air smell like in October. Before I know it I’m gone, not in my body but in my head, walking around some place I’ve never lived, arranging a life I haven’t built yet.

At 76. Still doing this.

I’ve asked myself if something is wrong with me. If a person my age is supposed to be settled by now, rooted, done with the restless wanting of new places. Maybe I missed that memo. Maybe it got lost somewhere between Shreveport and the Eastern Ouachitas and all those Walmart parking lots I’ve slept in along the way.

Here’s what I think is actually happening. I think the fantasy is not really about the Western Ouachitas. The Western Ouachitas are just the shape it takes right now. The fantasy is about possibility. About the idea that there is still something out there waiting. Another chapter. Another version of a life that could be mine if I wanted it badly enough to go get it.

That feeling has never left me. Not at 50. Not at 60. Not now.

And I’ve decided I don’t want it to.

The day I stop fantasizing is the day something essential goes out in me. The wanting is not a problem to be solved. It’s proof that I’m still here, still alive in the way that matters, still looking at the horizon and thinking about what’s on the other side of it.

But here’s where the fantasy gets real. I’m ready to declutter my former life. Those t-shirts and blue jeans I’ve been holding onto for the last ten years — gone. The sofa — gone. All of it. I only need what I can fit in a tiny house and my gray camper van. That’s not a sacrifice. That’s a liberation. Every thing I own that doesn’t serve the life I’m actually living is just weight I’m carrying for no good reason. I’m done carrying it.

I want early mornings with my coffee watching the rain blow in from the friendly Ouachitas. I want to sit with that and breathe it in and feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I want to look up one morning and see a bald eagle riding the thermals overhead and feel that particular stillness that comes over you when nature reminds you how small and how lucky you are all at once.

I have my front porch. I have my Volvo. I have my camper van and my dog Thumper and a road that goes in every direction I choose. I have 27 years in one place and 21 years in another and a whole lot of life still unaccounted for.

Maybe the Western Ouachitas are next. Maybe they’re not. Maybe I’ll drive out there one afternoon just to see what the light does and come home to Louisiana and sit on my porch and be perfectly happy.

Or maybe I won’t come home right away.

That’s the thing about a fantasy. Sometimes it stays a dream. And sometimes you wake up one morning and realize you’re already living it.

I’ve done that before. I’ll probably do it again.

It’s time to spread my own wings while I still have the fire inside me. And I do still have it. I feel it every morning when I wake up and every mile I put behind me on the road. The fire is there. It hasn’t gone anywhere.

I’m not done living yet. Not even close.

Thanks for reading.

Kindly, Carol

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I have been broke. Not “tight this month” broke. Not “skipping lattes” broke. Really broke. The kind where you pick up the phone and a debt collector is on the other end and you have to decide in that second whether to lie or just tell the truth.

I told the truth.

That was the first thing being broke taught me. Honesty with people you owe money to is terrifying and it is also the only thing that works. I learned to say, plainly and without drama, I don’t have it right now. Here’s what I can do. Most of the time, that conversation went better than I expected. Not always. But most of the time. I held nothing back. I told it just plain and simple. But sometimes I was not believed. Then I got mad.

I worked two part-time jobs for years. Low-paying work. The kind that wears your body down and still doesn’t cover everything. I lost jobs. I sat in that awful in-between space — unemployed, sending out applications, watching the bills stack up, pretending to people around me that things were fine when they were not fine at all.

The electricity went off. More than once. You learn things about yourself when the lights go out and you’re sitting in the dark figuring out your next move. You learn you are more resourceful than you thought. You learn what actually matters and what was just noise. You learn that shame, as heavy as it feels, does not have to be the last word.

My car got repossessed. I need you to understand what that means when you’re working — when the car is how you get to the job that is supposed to dig you out of the hole. I had to figure out how to get it back. I did. I don’t know how I did it exactly, only that I had no choice and so I found a way, the way you do when the alternative is unacceptable.

I am 76 years old now. I drive a black Volvo. I sleep in my camper van in parking lots by choice. I write from my front porch in Louisiana and I go where I want when I want.

None of that would mean anything if I hadn’t been broke first.

Being broke didn’t break me. It stripped me down to what was real. It taught me that I could survive things I never thought I could survive. It taught me that dignity doesn’t live in your bank account. It lives in how you handle yourself when everything is hard and nobody is watching.

All those early struggles I learned in my twenties and thirties have served me well. When a tornado hit in Louisiana June 2023 and knocked out my electricity for a week, I didn’t panic. It was 90 degrees with 85 percent humidity and I could hardly breathe — but I remembered the ice water trick and I had my trusty Bluetti power station to keep me company. I got through it because I’d been through worse.

I’m thankful for those early years of struggle. They built something in me that money never could. And those bill collectors? I handle them with kid gloves now. I know exactly what to say, exactly how to say it, and I don’t lose a minute of sleep over it.

I learned that at 76. Better late than never.

Thanks for reading.

—Kindly Carol

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I was somewhere west of Dallas when I admitted it to myself. I was done.

Not tired-and-push-through done. Bone done. The kind of tired where your hands feel thick on the wheel and the lane markers start doing things they shouldn’t. I’d been driving since early morning, pointed east out of Arizona, Thumper curled up in the passenger seat like a small, warm anchor. Louisiana was still a day away. Dallas was right here.

So I started watching the exits.

You learn things, traveling the way I do. You learn to read a city by its lights. Hospital lights are different — they never go dark, never go quiet in the way that makes you uneasy. There’s always movement. Always a reason for people to be coming and going at two in the morning without anybody thinking twice about it.

I spotted the complex from the highway. A big medical center, the kind with multiple buildings and a parking structure and those tall pole lights that turn everything the color of pale butter. I took the exit.

I drove the lot slow, the way I always do. Reading it. A security truck was making its rounds — not hassling anybody, just present. That’s what I was looking for. Presence. The parking lot had that settled, institutional feel. People coming off shifts. A few other cars sitting still with nobody in them, or somebody sleeping, same as me.

I found a spot near the edge, not too close to the entrance, not too far from the light. Cracked the windows. Thumper repositioned himself, sighed, and went back to sleep like this was perfectly normal. Because for us, it is.

Here’s what people don’t understand about overnight stops like this: the noise isn’t the problem. Street traffic is white noise. The occasional siren doesn’t wake me — it registers and fades. What wakes you is the wrong kind of quiet, or the wrong kind of close. A hospital parking lot in Dallas at midnight has neither. It has the steady, indifferent hum of a city doing its business, and nobody’s business is you.

I didn’t lie awake worrying. That surprises people. But worry is a luxury for folks who haven’t figured out yet that most of what you’re afraid of never shows up. I’ve been doing this long enough to know the difference between a sketchy lot and a safe one, between a situation that needs my attention and one that just needs me to close my eyes.

I closed my eyes.

By six in the morning the light had shifted and Thumper was restless. I sat up, drank cold coffee from the thermos I’d filled back in Arizona, and watched the hospital parking lot come alive with the day shift. Nurses in scrubs. A man in a white coat moving fast. Ordinary Tuesday morning, big American city.

I pointed the Volvo east toward Louisiana and got back on the road.

That’s it. That’s the whole story. Sometimes the road gives you exactly what you need, right when you need it — no drama, no adventure, just a safe place to sleep and the good sense to take it.

Thanks for reading.

—Kindly, Carol

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It’s the freedom of having nothing left to prove. I’m the person whose developed habits and nuisances over the years, that I feel comfortable with.

For most of my life, I was proving something. I worked hard, raised children, paid bills, met deadlines, and tried to do the right thing. Like many people, I spent decades measuring my success by what I accomplished and what others thought of me. But not anymore. I don’t shower everyday. I don’t put on make-up just to drive to the store, unless I just want to. Most of the time I don’t want to. And that’s all ok with me.

I wanted to be a good employee. A good mother. A responsible citizen. A dependable friend. There is nothing wrong with those goals. They gave purpose to my life. I use to focus on pleasing everyone as I believed I was being judge whether I’m a good person or not.

But somewhere along the way, I became exhausted from carrying the weight of other people’s expectations. Instead, I learned how to fit in. But now it’s different. I pay my own way and I don’t care what others think of me. I’m respectful and kind. That’s all that matters to me. I hate no one in this world.

Age has a way of stripping away the unnecessary.

You begin to realize that not everyone will approve of your choices. Some people will misunderstand you. Some will criticize you. Some will think you’ve made mistakes. It doesn’t bother me. I can’t read minds, and I’m not a celebrity, so I never worry about reading about myself in print. So no worries!

And that’s okay.

One of the greatest gifts of growing older is discovering that you can survive the disapproval of others.

These days I write because I love writing. I travel because I enjoy seeing what lies beyond the next highway exit. I sit quietly on my porch because it brings me peace.

I no longer feel the need to explain myself to everyone. But occasionally, I’m asked if I’m afraid traveling alone? My answer is always “No”.

That is freedom.

I don’t have the newest car. I don’t live in a fancy house. My life doesn’t look like the retirement advertisements filled with luxury cruises and beachfront condos. All that is fake. Material things and shiny objects will not make your retirement years great.

Instead, my life looks like early mornings with coffee and a laptop. It looks like stories waiting to be written. It looks like dreams that are still alive, even after seventy-six years .So, the trick is to learn how to dream, no matter how small or how large.

I have learned that a meaningful life doesn’t require anyone else’s permission. Not my children’s permission or anyone else.

The older I get, the less interested I am in impressing people and the more interested I am in being genuine. The more interested in living in peace, living a simple life with least decisions to make. I want to feel like a kid again.

If I want to write about aging, I write about aging. It brings me joy, plus I get to know myself a little better.

If I want to spend the afternoon watching birds or sitting beside a creek, I do that. If I want to start over at an age when society expects me to slow down, then I start over. The creek fuels my dream world. The serenity of flowing water soothes my soul.

The truth is, I have already lived through enough successes and failures to know that neither one defines me.

What defines me is my willingness to keep living fully. And why not? I deserve it.

Many people assume aging is about loss. It’s not. It’s a natural process of life. No denying that. You’re born into this world, live a lifespan and go out of this world hopefully living a full life. You will age throughout the whole process. So embrace aging. Don’t fear it.

I’ve experienced some losses, certainly. I’ve lost people I loved. I’ve lost opportunities. I’ve lost versions of myself that belonged to another season of life. I’ve made my share of mistakes, but it was all done with good intentions at the time.

But I’ve gained something, too.

I’ve gained perspective.

I’ve gained courage.

And I’ve gained the freedom that comes from realizing I don’t need to prove my worth to anyone. My worth was never tied to my job title, my bank account, or the opinions of strangers. It was there all along. No one. If you don’t like me —that’s okay. I only need one good friend anyway. Actually one is really enough.

At 76, I still have dreams. I still have curiosity. I still have stories to tell. I still have plans. I’m still looking for that ultimate satisfaction in life.

And perhaps that is the greatest freedom of all.

Knowing that the person I am today is enough. And I am enough. My life is peaceful and every new day is something I look forward to. I am blessed and I’m thankful for it all.

Thanks for reading.

Kindly, Carol

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When I was younger, I thought “starting over” was something people did in their twenties or thirties. It was the age of new careers, new relationships, and fresh beginnings. I never imagined that at 76 I would find myself standing at the edge of another new chapter.

Yet here I am.

Life has taught me that starting over isn’t reserved for the young. In many ways, it takes more courage to begin again when you are older because you know exactly how difficult life can be. You understand loss. You understand disappointment. You understand that nothing is guaranteed. But I’m adventurous by nature and I believe that “nothing ventured, nothing gain” philosophy.

But you also understand something else.

You understand that every sunrise is a gift. Another day that Elvis or Michael Jackson did not live to see what 76 looks like. I wonder if they would still be making hit songs? Just wondering.

Starting over at 76 has taught me that freedom looks different than it did when I was young. I no longer feel the need to prove myself to anyone. I don’t need a fancy title, a larger paycheck, or the approval of strangers. Those things once seemed important. Now I know that peace of mind is far more valuable.

I’ve learned that simplicity is not a sacrifice. It is a blessing.

The older I get, the less I need and the more I appreciate. A quiet morning with a cup of coffee. A notebook filled with thoughts. A conversation with someone who understands life’s struggles. A sunset viewed from a front porch or a campground. These simple moments have become treasures.

Starting over has also taught me that fear never completely disappears. There are still days when I worry about the future. There are still moments of uncertainty. But experience has shown me that most problems eventually find a solution, and most storms eventually pass. And yes, storms of life do pass.

At 76, I trust myself more than I ever did at 30. I know where I’m going.

I have survived heartbreak, financial struggles, career changes, family challenges, and unexpected detours. Each difficulty left me stronger than before. Looking back, I realize that resilience is built one hard day at a time.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of all is that life remains interesting if we stay curious.

I still want to learn new things. I still have stories to write, places to explore, and people to meet. Curiosity keeps the spirit young even when the body grows older. As long as there is something to wonder about, there is a reason to get up in the morning.

Starting over at 76 has taught me that life isn’t over until it’s over.

There are still dreams worth pursuing. There are still adventures waiting around unexpected corners. There are still opportunities to make a difference in someone’s life.

The calendar may say I am 76 years old. But I don’t feel like it.

But my heart still believes there is another chapter left to write.

And that may be the most important lesson of all.

Writing

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been reflecting on what freedom, aging, resilience, and purpose really mean at this stage of life.

Those reflections became a short ebook:

Starting Over at 76: What Freedom Really Looks Like

It’s a 17-page collection of personal stories and lessons I’ve learned about beginning again, living with less, and making every day count.

If you’d like to read it, you can find it here

Starting Over at 76

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But here’s what I’ve learned living on the road — safety doesn’t always look the way you expect it to. Sometimes it looks like a truck stop in Texas.

Sometimes it looks like a Cracker Barrel off the interstate. And sometimes, unexpectedly, it looks like the neon glow of a casino sign in the Arizona desert, bright enough to read by, open enough that nobody gives you a second glance.

Apache Gold Casino sits on the San Carlos Apache Reservation east of Globe, Arizona. I pulled in late, low on energy, not looking for entertainment. I was looking for a place to stop. I needed some good sleep.

What I found was one of the most unexpectedly comfortable nights I’ve had on the road.

Casino parking lots have a logic to them.

They never really close. That’s the first thing you notice. At two in the morning, three in the morning, four — there are still cars coming and going, still lights blazing, still enough activity that one more vehicle parked quietly in the lot barely registers.

You are hiding in plain sight. And hiding in plain sight is the whole art of this life.

I parked toward the back of the lot, away from the main entrance but well within the reach of the security lighting. Drew my curtains. Locked my doors.

What I found was one of the most unexpectedly comfortable nights I’ve had on the road.

And then — nothing.

No knocks. No flashlight sweeping across my windows. No security guard with questions I didn’t want to answer.

Just the distant hum of the casino doing what casinos do at three in the morning, which is exactly what they do at three in the afternoon. Thumper settled in beside me. I cracked the windows just enough to let the desert air move through — cool and dry, the way Arizona nights get even in warm weather — and I ate some peanut butter crackers and drank the last of my Arizona iced tea and thought, this is fine. This is actually fine.

That’s a feeling worth paying attention to when you live on the road. Not every night gives it to you.

I slept better than I had any right to.

Woke up to the parking lot already filling back in, day-shift workers pulling in, a few early-bird gamblers who apparently have places to be at seven in the morning. Nobody looked at my car twice.

I straightened up, ran a hand through my hair, and drove out the way I came in — quiet, unhurried, leaving nothing behind.

Apache Gold wasn’t on my plan. It rarely is, with the best stops. You just learn to recognize a good thing when you land in it.

If you’re thinking about casino parking lots:

• Tribal casinos especially — they’re open all night, well-lit, and security is focused on the inside, not the lot

• Park toward the back, away from the entrance flow

• You’ll blend right in — there are always a few cars that look like they’ve been there a while

• Leave clean, leave early, leave grateful

Kindly,

Carol

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At 76, I finally stopped measuring my days by how much I produced. Here’s what I do instead.

―

I just turned 76, and I’ve decided it’s time to build a daily schedule that actually works for me — one that’s sustainable, intentional, and entirely on my own terms.

As an early riser, I’ve learned that I need about 45 minutes in the morning just to ease into the day. I hit the bathroom, take my medications, crack open my tablet, pour that first cup of coffee, and figure out what I actually want to accomplish before the world gets going. It’s not a rushed routine. It’s a ritual.

From there, I settle in with Substack Notes — reading, engaging, and tending to anything that needs my attention. Then I shift into my real work: my novel. I write until noon, and I protect that time fiercely.

Mornings give me my highest energy levels

Mornings have a natural flow to them, so I leave room for cooking breakfast or lunch, returning phone calls, and whatever unexpected things decide to show up. Life doesn’t always follow a schedule, and at 76, I’ve made my peace with that.

At noon I stop. I eat, run errands if I need to, and by 1 o’clock I’m resting. That two-hour window — from 1 to 3 — is mine. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I watch YouTube. Sometimes I nap. No guilt either way.

After 3, the day opens up completely. I do whatever I want, even if that means doing absolutely nothing. And I’m in bed around 9.

There was a time when I measured my days by how much I produced. But somewhere along the way, I stopped equating busyness with worth. Nobody tells you that one of the great gifts of getting older is finally having permission to design your life exactly as you want it. I didn’t ask for anyone’s approval when I built this schedule, and I won’t.

If you’re feeling the pull to reclaim your days, start small. What’s the one thing you want to protect? Build around that. The rest will follow. We’ve earned the right to live deliberately — every single day of it.

It’s my time now. I’ve got to make my days really count.

Kindly,

Carol

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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.

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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

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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

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