Just shy of five years ago, a 40-foot behemoth pulled up in the office complex across from our Austin apartment. I remember walking through Meriwether during “RVing 101” with the seller, hoping Eric would absorb and remember everything. It was all so foreign.
Now I’m sitting here at McKinney Falls State Park in Austin, the first campground we ever stayed at with Meriwether. I’m nostalgic, regretful, thankful, wiser. I’ve grown.
I’m not altogether ready to take this next step. I had this real conversation with Eric last week (we were at my parents’ while Meriwether was getting final maintenance):
Me: I miss Meriwether, and that makes me sad because we’re about to sell him.
Eric: Why are we?
Me: (After silence) Because we have to if we want to accomplish our goals. Because we’re too comfortable.
Me: But I just need you to know that I’m sad about it.
That’s where I’m at. I know why I’m doing what I’m doing, but it doesn’t come without a bittersweet taste. Do you know what I’m talking about?
I’m tempted to list what I’ve accomplished during this chapter–these five years of full-time RV travel. You know–how many states I’ve been to, how many miles, how many national parks. But I’m not going to do that.
For tonight, it’s enough to reflect on why I’ve chosen a life of travel. The whats are only surface-level.
There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot.
The wanderlust in me craves strange vistas. Though I desire stability, a part of me can’t live without uncertainty.
On the Living List we made before we were married, Eric and I included, “Do one spontaneous thing every day.” We didn’t know then that our best days would come when we stopped planning and embraced the unexpected.
So look at me. I don’t know what I’m leaning into, but I’m leaning hard. I’m cutting ties with comfort, and embracing the uncertain road. It’s never disappointed me before.