I grew up camping in tents. Always tents. Sometimes in a sleeping bag right under the stars. But always “roughing it.” I loved to camp. As I got older, camping in tents was so much a part of my life that I miraculously found a job that actually paid me to camp. I taught at a high school that integrated outdoor education into the curriculum. When I wasn’t teaching English, I was taking kids out to rock climb, or camp in the Boundary Waters, or explore Devil's Tower in Wyoming, or hike in the Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado. That was my actual real-life job.
During the year I met Trav, I had slept in my tent for work or for pleasure for more than 100 nights. I lived out of my backpack. My tent was perpetually hanging to dry in my living room when I wasn't outside. I could set up and take down my camp in minutes. I knew secret places to camp, beaches to sleep on for free, and woods where no one would bother you. Tent camping was life.
I had never had a moment in my life when I desired to be in an RV. In my mind, RVs were for fancy people, people in movies, older folks who couldn’t sleep on the ground anymore, folks who like camping but don’t actually like camping, people with money (which I definitely did not have).
At the moment of our dream’s conception, I had spent exactly zero time in an RV. None. But now, we had hatched a plan that not only involved getting into one but actually living in it full-time.
I realized I should probably try it out. See what it was like. Give it a test run.
Trav grew up RVing and camping in trailers and truckbed campers. He gets RV life. Conveniently, my in-laws had an older model motorhome sitting in their driveway, so we borrowed theirs for a weekend trip around the state.
I settled myself down inside that thing, ready for a sweet ride and for the adventure to begin. I was not prepared for this ride. It shuttered its way down the highway. No air conditioning. Loud as hell. We bumped along the road in the sweltering heat, roasting like a tin of beans left out under the hot desert sun. We rode with all the windows open, the cupboards clattering away (I was not prepared for the clattering), yelling questions and directions at each other over the rattle-wind noise while our girls cried in their car seats we had strapped to the bench behind the dining table.
And sure, we got to take breaks and naps when we needed to, and I could certainly see the appeal of the whole “having your house wherever you go” thing. But it was far from the luxurious ride I had pictured. And it was small. Like, “Excuse me, but you’re standing on my feet while I am trying to make sandwiches” small. Trav was completely unbothered, but I started to panic a little. What were we thinking? When we got home, Cousin Eddie, in his bathrobe, laughed at me in my dreams.
Everything tilted a little bit then. How on earth would this work? Sure, we could find a more up-to-date model. But even still, that space was tiny. How would I live with my family in such a tiny space for so long? I like my space. Like–A lot. That was the first waver. The first moment of second-guessing myself. To be sure, there would be more of those moments over the years of planning. But that one was a big one. I realized I had no idea what I was doing. And as confident as Trav was driving that rattle bucket down the road, he really has no idea what we are in for either. Not really.
And that’s when they started—the what ifs? And the hows? And so, with one rickety RV trip, the “worry list” was born. I started writing the worries down so that I could compartmentalize and rationalize them, give them a space to live that wasn’t in my mind. The list spun out longer and longer.
How will we get along with each other?
What if we don’t get along at all?
What will happen when I start to feel claustrophobic? (Which I do even in our own house sometimes.)
How will we find places to stay?
What if we can’t find places to stay?
What if we have to spend the whole year living in Walmart and Cracker Barrel parking lots?
What if we do find a place to stay, but everyone stares at us and laughs while we try and fail to back our rig into our spot?
What if we hook everything up wrong, and it all explodes?
What if we hate it?
What if our girls hate it?
What if I fail them as a homeschool teacher, and they come home and they’re six years behind their peers and have to start over in Kindergarten?
What if I have to start my career from scratch, and I can’t reestablish myself, and I make no money when we get home?
And then what if we can’t make ends meet?
What if one of us gets sick on the road? Needs medical care? Needs to have a prescription refilled? Where do we do that?
What if something happens to someone in my family while we are traveling?
What if something happens to one of us while we are traveling?
What if something happens to our rig while we are traveling?
What if something breaks down?
What if I break down?
And so it goes on and on. Lists like these are why I have always been impulsive in my decision-making. Why I am a risk taker. Why I often jump without thinking. Because I am, by nature, an anxious person. And thinking about things too carefully leads to these lists. Which can be debilitating if I give them power.
You might wonder why I haven’t quit this dream when you see all of those worries listed. (And trust me, that is just a sliver of the list.) But here’s the thing.
No dream comes without risk. In fact, dreams demand risk.
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, the first woman president of Liberia, and in fact, the first woman to be elected head of state anywhere in Africa, once said, "If your dreams do not scare you, they are not big enough."
And I am scared. Of course I am. But I am okay with being a little bit scared.
And let’s be honest. Even in my day-to-day life, I have these kinds of worries. Well, maybe not the “living in Walmart parking lots” one, but many of these same worries. I confront my anxieties and fears daily and have managed to keep forging ahead in my life as a mother, as a wife, as an educator, as Jen. I have learned in my life that if I let these worries hold me back, I will not truly be living.
Most importantly, I am sure of this dream. I am sure the joys and the wows will far outweigh the what-ifs and the hows.
That’s why, despite that list, I have not quit this dream. I would rather take risks than live with regret.
So, the list lives both on paper and, yeah, still in my mind. I sometimes share items on the list with Trav. He is the steady one, the rock, the “We will work it out” one. I let him know when a new item goes on the list so he can bring me back from the brink. Together, we rationally talk about the what-ifs and the hows. And together, we daydream about the joys and the wows. And that is what keeps the worry list manageable.
And besides, Travis, ever the voice of reason, assures me we will not spend the whole year in Cracker Barrel and Walmart parking lots. If push comes to shove, we can definitely throw in a couple of rest areas and truck stops, too. And hey, I can even bring a tent along and throw that out next to the rig now and then when I start to feel a little claustrophobic or a little bit homesick. No worries.
I was at a women’s conference years ago and left with words that I cling to when necessary: “80% of what we worry about never happens”.
“No dream comes without risk. In fact, dreams demand risk. ” love this!