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Stories From A Feral Grandma: 10 Lessons I've Learned From A Year On The Road - Part 1

Jun 29, 2026

1. Most people are kinder than the news would suggest

One of the more pleasant surprises I’ve found traveling has been discovering that people are kinder than the news would have you think. Strangers have helped back me into campsites when I was terrified of hitting trees and picnic tables. They have helped me level my van when I was on a 10% incline. Truckers have given me advice about weather and road conditions. Women in laundromats have shared stories with me like we're old friends. Fellow nomads have loaned me ladders and drills, shared stories, hot grills, cold drinks, and campfires. They have waved me through difficult situations. And yet, they have never been intrusive. It’s almost as though there is a secret code that they broadcast - “I’m here if you need me but I won’t disturb you unless you ask.” And they communicate that code with a casual wave that says - ‘we are members of the same secret society’.

Out on the road, people recognize one another differently. They see effort. Independence. Courage. They understand that everyone traveling alone carries both freedom and uncertainty in equal measure. There is respect for the individual but recognition of our shared humanity.

Ram Dass often said, ‘We’re all just walking each other home’. It’s one of my favorites quotes of his. I think what he means is that life is a shared journey where we support one another toward a place of spiritual peace, wholeness, or ultimate truth. My travels over the past year, though, have given that phrase an almost literal meaning. As I’ve traveled from place to place searching for new locations that I haven’t yet seen, I’ve come to realize that the geography isn’t really the point. The miles become a backdrop for the people you meet. None of those people may stay in your life. But for a few minutes or a few hours, they walk beside you. And you realize that the journey isn’t just yours. It’s everyone’s. The farther you wander from the place you started, the more likely you are to discover that home was never a location. It was always found in the moments when two travelers recognize each other and help one another along the way. I like to think that maybe that is what Ram Dass meant. We aren’t traveling to find home. We are home for one another, if only for a little while.

2. Weather controls more than you expect

Wind can change your route. Heat changes your energy. Rain changes your mood. Traveling in a camper van reconnects you with the reality that humans are not separate from nature. We are still deeply affected by the sky above us. Weather is part of the adventure.

You don’t merely observe weather when traveling - you negotiate with it. Wind gusts shake the van all night. Summer sun pours in through the windshield or thunderstorms pelt the glass. Snow rewrites your route. Over time, you stop fighting the elements and learn to move with them instead.

Until I hit the road, I really did not pay much attention to the weather. Living in tornado alley, I was of course cognizant of the tremendous impact weather can have. But my location was stable and I could depend on my local weather forecaster to alert me if I needed to be aware of changing conditions. As a nomad, I’m moving from one location to another and conditions can change quickly. I’ve learned to watch the sky and to pay attention to clouds and the wind. And that’s not a bad thing - it makes me feel like I’m part of the environment I’m moving around in.

3. Plans are only suggestions

Reservations fall through. Roads close. Traffic appears from nowhere. Storms come early. Engines fail. People leave. Beauty appears unexpectedly. So does kindness. So does sorrow. Beautiful discoveries happen accidentally. Some of the best places I’ve ever found were never part of the plan. Travel taught me to leave room for detours - both on the road and in life.

Travel has a way of laughing at certainty. A beautiful little town captures your heart and keeps you three extra days. A stranger invites you to a bluegrass festival you never knew existed. A tire goes flat in Kentucky. The rain comes in Indiana. The dog gets sick in Wyoming. You miss a turn and accidentally discover something better than what you intended to find.

Nomadic life also taught me how temporary everything is - weather, campsites, neighbors, plans, moods, seasons, even identities. After enough miles, a traveler begins to understand an important truth: plans are not commandments. They are merely suggestions.

That is part of why travel changes people. It slowly teaches us that life itself is less controllable than we imagined. The road strips away the fantasy that everything can be organized into tidy boxes. Nature does not care about reservations. Mountains do not care about deadlines. Hail storms do not pause because you are passing through.

Plans may guide the journey but they are not the journey itself. The journey lives in the surprises, the interruptions, the detours, and the willingness to let the world change you along the way. You still make them, of course. Plans matter. They point you in a direction. They help you begin. But wise travelers understand that the road always gets a vote. Weather changes. Opportunities appear. Curiosity interrupts schedules. The best journeys leave room for surprise. A true traveler says, ‘I wonder what will happen next?’

4. Accomplishing hard things changes you

No matter how organized or experienced I think I’ve become, something eventually breaks. A dead battery. A blown fuse. A wrong turn down a road far too narrow for my rig. My travels have reminded me that any control I think I have is temporary and adaptability matters more than perfection.

It’s just me - trying to back an oversized rig into a campsite in the rain, trying to figure out why the inverter shut down at midnight, trying to stay calm when plans fall apart three states from anyone you know. You either learn resilience or you learn exhaustion and I’ve learned both.

At first, everything felt intimidating - driving a large vehicle, camping alone, unfamiliar places, mechanical issues, uncertainty. But fear loses power through repetition. Eventually things that once felt overwhelming simply become part of the day.

Living on the road looks carefree from the outside, but freedom comes with constant responsibility. You monitor water levels, propane, batteries, fuel, tire pressure, weather, routes, and repairs. Real freedom isn’t the absence of responsibility - it’s choosing the responsibilities that matter to you. You learn to trust yourself.

When you travel long-term, there’s often nobody else to make decisions for you. You learn to troubleshoot, adapt, retire, and recover. Eventually self-trust grows quietly in the background until one day you notice you’re calmer during problems that once would have overwhelmed you.

5. You need far less than you think

Living in a small space forces honesty. Every item has weight, takes space, and demands a purpose. Eventually you stop asking, ‘What else do I need?’ And start asking, ‘Why am I carrying this at all?’ Simplicity stops feeling like sacrifice and starts feeling like freedom.

People I've met on the road KNOW this has been the hardest lesson for me and one in which I'm contantly evolving. When I first started traveling, I believed my survival on the road depended on preparing for every possible inconvenience. I packed as if movement itself was dangerous, as if the world outside my driveway was hostile and empty. I convinced myself that I needed duplicates of everything because stores might be far away or tomorrow might bring some unforeseen emergency. Good Lord, I carry enough medical gear to outfit a small ER! Medical preparedness is an important issue for me but even on these items, I've learned to simplify. (However, you will have to pry the cardiac defibrillator from my cold, dead hands!)

I still have so much to learn but I’m finding that the more miles I’ve strapped to my tires, the more adaptable I’ve become. When you own less, you become less fragile. You stop depending on ideal conditions to be comfortable or content. Maybe it rains for three days. Maybe the campground is noisy. Maybe dinner is simple soup heated on a single burner. Duct tape and gauze work as well as a tension bandage. You discover you can adjust. Human beings are remarkably capable of adjusting.

And the video of the day: