There’s a romantic pull to life on the road—

open skies, endless highways, freedom from the daily grind. But what most people don’t talk about is the emotional terrain that comes with it—the vulnerability of constant change, the rawness of community dynamics, the moments of deep loneliness that coexist with profound connection. It's not just the logistics of living in a van or chasing sunsets—it's learning to regulate your nervous system through chaos, to meet yourself again and again in the quiet, and to untangle your identity from the expectations of others. In the past ten months, I’ve attended several gatherings across North America—Holy Toledo, Descend, Northwest Nomads, Moonlanding, and a beautifully unorganized yet organized Vansgiving. While I've been in and out of the nomadic lifestyle for 6 years, these last 10 months have unfolded with a whole new depth — truly becoming a lifestyle.

I came for the adventure. I stayed for the people, and I grew because I had to.

The following are simply a few of the lessons I have learned—about others, about myself, and about what it really takes to build a life of freedom that’s sustainable.

The Enchantment and Complexity of Nomadic Life

On the outside, nomadic life looks like a dream: campfires under the stars, days shaped by intuition, landscapes changing with your mood. It's a dream—but one that demands you to show up as your full self. Without the slower monotonous pace of a fixed life, your unresolved patterns rise to the surface quicker. This lifestyle doesn’t just give you freedom. It hands you a mirror. Best way I can describe with words? Is that polarity roars. Illuminating the blatancy of what needs to change, of what's ready to heal.

To thrive here, you need more than a vehicle and an Instagram-worthy view. You need emotional awareness, a sense of inner direction, and the courage to keep choosing yourself, even when it’s hard.

How Good Boundaries Filter Your Experience

Lesson: Everyone will want to be your friend, but not everyone is capable of the respect required to be your friend.

The intimacy of living on the road and nomadic gatherings is unlike anything else. You’re parked next to someone one day and cooking breakfast with them the next. But proximity doesn’t always equal alignment.

What I learned early on is that boundaries aren’t walls—they’re filters. They help you sift through what feels good and what doesn’t. The road is a pressure cooker: there’s nowhere to hide, not even from yourself. If someone isn’t respecting your space, your time, or your truth, it shows up fast. You learn to speak up. You learn to walk away. And in doing so, you make space for the people who do meet you in your fullness.

You'll also be given the opportunity to meet yourself head on if you're an over-giver, seeking to fulfill your needs through giving to others, with an influx and overflow of takers, you'll quickly burn out, finding your stability in physical and emotional availability will be key.

How the Upsets Can Show You Your People

Lesson: When the dust settles, who will stand by your side to do the work with you?

Not every moment is magical. There are tears. Misunderstandings. Moments you wish you handled differently. But those moments—those raw, messy, human moments—that's where the gold is.

I've had miscommunications turn into a full-blown conflict. It would’ve been easier to ghost, but instead, addressing the situation head-on allowed peace to reign. Words and clear communication can go far, but not without accountability and vulnerability. Through these principles, something deeper forms—a kind of chosen family that’s built not on perfection, but on honesty and the willingness to walk alongside one another in the discomfort.

Your people are the ones who are willing to stay in the room with you when it’s hard. That’s how true trust is built on the road. Not just through shared adventures, but through shared vulnerability.

You Don’t Have to Absorb Others’ Truths to Stay Connected

Lesson: Multiple truths can exist at once—and honoring your own doesn’t make you less compassionate.

One of the more nuanced lessons I’ve learned on the road is that just because someone has a strong emotional response doesn’t mean anyone is automatically in the wrong. And just because two people experience a moment differently doesn’t mean either are lying.

In community, conversations can get deep quickly. Sometimes those moments feel like nourishment for the soul. Other times, they brush up against old wounds—sometimes for others, sometimes for ourselves. What I’ve learned is that multiple realities can coexist: one person can feel triggered, and another can still be operating from a place of genuine care and curiosity.

In the past, when others felt triggered by my actions or presence, I would often fold, shrink, or gaslight myself into believing I was “too much,” or that I had done something wrong—without first pausing to assess what was actually true. I did this in the name of harmony for protection. It’s one of my childhood patterns I’m learning to break out of. Nobody is coming to harm me now—and I don’t have to betray myself to feel safe. I’ve learned that self-abandoning doesn’t create true harmony—it creates a false sense of connection and prevents others from seeing and understanding the real you. Just as narcissism can be manipulative, so can people-pleasing.

This lifestyle has taught me that connection doesn’t require conformity. It’s okay if someone else feels something different. It’s okay to hold your truth steady without absorbing theirs. I’ve learned to let my actions stand on their own, to trust my intentions, and to stay rooted in self-respect—even in the face of emotional intensity and polarity.

Connection isn’t built on collapsing for one another. It’s built on curiosity, consent, and mutual respect. We can allow multiple truths to exist—and still choose to connect through them with honesty and compassion.

Behavior Is the Clearest Indicator of Truth

Lesson: Your job isn’t to convince people of the truth—it’s simply to tell it.

Words can be sweet, stories can be convincing—but behavior is what reveals the truth.

In a lifestyle where you're constantly meeting new people, sharing space, and navigating fast-forming bonds, it can be easy to get swept up in stories—both the ones people tell you and the ones you want to believe. But over time, I’ve learned that the only reliable compass is behavior. Yours and others. Who shows up when it’s hard? Who respects boundaries? Who offers safety not just in words, but in action? And can you do all of this for yourself, even when it gets hard and risks the rupture of connection?

Some people are great storytellers. They’ll tell you everything you want to hear, mirror your values, and paint pictures of shared dreams. But it’s not the story that tells the truth—it’s the pattern. And patterns only emerge when you’re willing to pause and pay attention. Without the pattern to back up the story, it's all just smoke and mirrors.

This doesn’t mean assuming the worst or turning cold. It means anchoring yourself in observation. It means trusting the data of your lived experience over wishful thinking. And most of all, it means being brave enough to acknowledge when someone’s behavior no longer aligns with the connection you hoped for.

It also means being brave enough to continually walk into the unknown, knowing you may get hurt—but trusting that behaviors will give you the clarity you need. We can’t gather the information necessary for growth without first making ourselves vulnerable.

On the flip side, I’ve also been deeply moved by those whose actions spoke volumes before their words ever caught up—people who show care in the form of shared meals, who notice when you're off and check in gently, who prove over time that they’re safe to lean into.

Or simply, those whose words match their actions—that’s when you’ve hit the jackpot.

Out here, I’ve learned to let behavior—not charisma—be my guide.

By Embracing Others, You Will Find the Self

Lesson: Exposing yourself to different archetypes within the nomadic community can lead you home to parts of yourself otherwise forgotten or undiscovered.

The road attracts the wild ones. The wanderers. The seekers. The ones who don’t fit in a box—and don’t want to.

In six months, I’ve met powder chasers, corporate vanlifers, full-time climbers, glorified dirtbags, and spiritual healers who read tarot by headlamp. At first, I felt like I didn’t fully belong to any one category. But as I moved through different camps and conversations, I began to see: I contain multitudes too, though there are definitely places I feel more ego-identified than others.

One night in Moab, after a week of stretching myself in ways I didn’t expect, I found myself roped in—literally—to rappel 120 feet off Looking Glass Rock. I was scared shitless. But I did it. And in that moment, I remembered: there’s a part of me that craves risk. That desires deeply to face my fears. The people around me didn’t just reflect that—they called it out of me, reminding me of a core part of what brings me joy; growth.

By Walking Blindly Toward What You Want, Your Wildest Dreams Can Come True

Lesson: When you trust your heart and move toward the unknown, the universe can deliver miracles.

When I showed up to my first vanlife event, Holy Toledo, I was nervous. I barely knew anyone. I wasn’t even sure if I belonged being in a Travel Trailer. But by the end of that weekend, I had found a crew that would become my family for the next six months.

None of that would’ve happened if I hadn’t taken the leap. I didn’t have a plan—I just had a pull. And sometimes, that’s enough.

There’s a kind of magic that only reveals itself when you move forward without guarantees. When you say yes before the path is clear.

Endings Are Inevitable—But Maybe Just More Common

Lesson: Not every connection is meant to last forever, and that doesn’t make it any less meaningful.

One of the hardest parts of this lifestyle is learning to let go. People come into your life intensely and beautifully—and sometimes, they leave just as quickly. At first, it can feel jarring. Like whiplash. Like loss. But over time, I’ve come to see that endings are not failures; they’re part of the rhythm of the road and maybe even your destiny's path.

Life makes sense in reverse, but is meant to be lived forwards.

Some connections burn bright and fast like shooting stars. While others linger like echoes, showing up again when you least expect to awaken a part of your soul, and some, some stay forever, but all remain teachers.

Maybe the art of living on the road isn’t about holding on—but about letting things leave your life with as much grace as they entered it. Makes it difficult when we have that human thing called, "attachment." The never ending philosophical debate of how to define healthy attachment will alway broach the forefront of my mind.

Holding Boundaries Is a Form of Kindness

Lesson: Holding your boundaries is the kindest thing you can do—for yourself and for others.

Out here, it’s easy to confuse kindness with accommodation. To believe that saying yes, giving more, or softening your no is what makes you “good.” But I’ve learned that holding boundaries is actually one of the most loving things you can do.

Boundaries are where self-respect and relational honesty meet. They prevent enabling. They stop cycles of misunderstanding. And they offer others the chance to grow. To meet you in truth. A chance to rise into integrity or to walk away. That’s real kindness, and requires great bravery.

Growth Will Hurt—But It Will Hurt Less Than Staying the Same

Lesson: You can’t outrun your lessons—only learn to walk with them.

Fire walk with me.

Growth isn’t easy. It will stretch you. It will hurt. But I’ve learned that the pain of growing is far less destructive than the ache of staying stagnant. You can delay your lessons, numb them, even try to drive faster than them—but they’ll always catch you. Because they’re not outside of you. They’re within you.

There's no outrunning growth. The key is to to find a sustainable way to walk alongside it—with courage and with compassion. To soften into the discomfort when it arises, and to learn to hold compassion for your inevitable mistakes. Pain doesn’t always mean something’s wrong. Sometimes, it’s a sign that something real is shifting.

Be gentle with yourself, you can only go as fast as you can. It's part of the wild ride, my friend.

Final Thoughts: The Transformative Power of Community and The Open Road

If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: nomadic life isn’t just about places. It’s about people. It’s about who you become when you strip everything down and follow your instincts and are placed in situations unexpected. I would say mostly it's about the chase of adventure, and I often think we forget, life is the adventure. And adventure doesn't manifest itself without some level of discomfort or even pain.

While many flee to this lifestyle, in hopes of running away, they are quickly humbled into the pressure cooker of their patterns, you either rise to meet them, or you don't. It’s about the family you build—not by blood, but by choice.

Family is how people treat you.

It's almost as if this way of untethered living allows the universe to cultivate lessons and miracles quicker than stationary life.

To anyone looking to learn more about themselves — to learn more about connection, self-understanding, and freedom—this life can give it to you. But it will ask for your presence and your patience. It will test your courage. And if you let it, it will crack you open in the best way possible.

The road doesn’t just take you somewhere new.
It brings you home—to know yourself more deeply than you ever thought possible.

A catalyst for massive self and relational evolution.

The richest growth comes from the willingness to walk through the pain. To channel duality into your greatest asset, instead of your greatest fear.

Does this resonate with you? I’d love to hear your thought—please leave a comment or share it with a friend who walks (or drives) a similar path!