I don’t know how to describe the last few weeks except to say, I’ve never felt more like myself and more undone by it at the same time.
This wasn’t the trip I imagined.
But I think that’s the point.
If you’ve been following along on Substack, then you know I took off in the van a few weeks ago. 1,600+ miles. Me, my dog, my thoughts, and every version of myself I’ve been avoiding.
I didn’t go looking for answers. I went looking for space to ask better questions.
And somewhere between the weight of my own expectations and the weight of the cooler I dragged down a rocky embankment in Coeur d’Alene, I cracked open. And not in the cute, Pinterest-road-trip, “omg this sunset healed my inner child” kind of way.
In the sitting on the van floor, covered in dirt, crying to my mom on the phone kind of way.
And still—this trip changed me.
I thought this would be the kind of solitude that delivers epiphanies.
You know, the romantic kind: deep breaths, starlit revelations, maybe a letter to my future self.
But what I got instead was an exhausting exercise in how many micro-decisions I could make before my nervous system waved the white flag.
Because here’s the truth no one tells you about living on the road:
It’s not a vacation. It’s life.
Just mobile.
And if you’re like me—neurodivergent, running a business, managing chronic uncertainty—then van-life becomes less about the destination and more about resource management and executive dysfunction.
Every new town was a puzzle:
Where do I charge my house batteries?
Where do I shower?
Where can I work that won’t glare at me for needing an outlet and bringing a dog?
Where’s the nearest Planet Fitness?
Where’s a flat place to sleep tonight?
And how do I keep Wyatt safe when it’s 90 degrees outside and I need to run the A/C that drains my batteries faster than I can recharge them?
I used to think “finding routine” was the magic trick.
Now I know the real trick is learning to adapt faster than the chaos can catch up.
There’s a story from Coeur d’Alene that I keep returning to.
It was one of those days where everything was already too much—the heat, the lack of shaded work spots, the logistics of charging the van, the looming weight of medical decisions I didn’t feel ready to make.
So I decided to say fuck it.
I grabbed Wyatt, my camera, my tripod, my cooler—yes, my actual cooler—and hauled all of it down a muddy hill to find a sliver of shade and a sliver of peace.
But then a group of screaming kids ran up behind us. Wyatt spooked. I slipped. My body met the dirt. Everything I carried scattered. I was bleeding, bruised, soaked, and still clutching my camera bag over my head like it was the only thing holding me together.
And no one helped.
Not a single kid paused or offered a hand.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I sat in the mess.
And then I breathed.
And something in me said,
This, too, is part of it.
That moment didn’t heal me.
But it changed me.
It reminded me that resilience isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just the quiet decision to keep showing up—to wipe the blood off your legs, gather your things, and try again tomorrow.
I kept going. To Sandpoint, ID, and then took a big fuck it leap to Cranbrook, BC (because I had never been to Canada), then to Fernie, BC, and then finally to Waterton, Alberta, where I hiked Bearhump Trail alone and sat at the summit in a moment of stillness so thick it felt ancient.
To Whitefish, Montana, where someone asked me the question I never quite knew how to answer:
“So… where’s home for you?”
And for once, I didn’t spin into a complicated, long-winded answer about where I was born or where I pay taxes.
Because the truth had already landed, days earlier, quietly, without fanfare:
Home isn’t a zip code. It’s a feeling.
A resonance. A click. A quiet yes.
Sometimes I find it in the way light hits the side of a mountain.
Sometimes in a stranger’s laugh.
Sometimes it’s just the peace in my own body after a really long cry.
And that kind of home?
I can take with me.
I can carry it inside.
I started this trip hoping to reclaim something.
My time. My confidence. My sense of control.
But I didn’t find control.
I found surrender.
And in that surrender, I found something sturdier than fire.
Something that doesn’t just burn, but holds.
The mountain.
Coming home looks different now.
It feels different now too.
Which is why I’m coming home to myself.
To the version of me that knows how to stand in a room and say,
“What you want matters. And you are not crazy for wanting it.”
And that’s why I’m coming back to She’s Hungry.
The podcast. The Substack. The mission.
The truth is—I never should’ve left.
And honestly? I don’t think I did. I think I just had to go gather the parts of me I left behind.
So if you’re still reading, if you’ve followed me through the pivots and plot twists—thank you. Truly.
This space is for us.
For the ones who are still searching.
For the ones still becoming.
For the ones trying to find home in a world that keeps moving.
I don’t know what comes next. But I know I want to keep building it with you.
PS: I’m planning an in-person event here in Portland soon. If you want to be the first to know, make sure you’re subscribed here and following me on Instagram. Because I believe that real change starts in brave conversations. And I want to host the kind of rooms where we stop pretending and start remembering.
PPS: If you’re feeling lost—maybe you’re not.
Maybe you’re just remembering what it feels like to come home to yourself.