Buying a Camper, Staying Sober, & Not Knowing WTF I’m Doing…

If you had told me 2 years ago that I’d be living in a camper on my own property, I would’ve laughed. Not because it’s impossible — I’ve always been a little unconventional — but because it’s the kind of thing you think you’d need a whole plan for.

And here’s the truth:

I have no plan.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

I’m just doing it anyway.

Why the Camper?

It’s not about the Pinterest version of “camper life” with curated throw pillows and cute enamel coffee mugs. This is about survival, independence, and claiming my own damn space.

After months of chaos in relationships, friendships, and family, I needed four walls (well… aluminum ones) that were mine. A place where the only drama is whether the propane is going to last until morning.

This camper isn’t perfect. It’s not my forever. But it’s my now. And that’s enough.

Sobriety in the Middle of It All

If you’ve been following my story, you know I’ve been sober since October 24, 2024. That’s nine months without numbing out. Nine months of actually feeling all of this — the uncertainty, the grief, the weird thrill of possibility — without a drink in my hand.

Sobriety makes things sharper. The pain cuts deeper. The victories feel cleaner. And in moments like these, when I’m standing in my half set-up camper wondering where the hell the broom went, I’m reminded that I can do hard things without trying to escape from them.

No Map, Just Movement

People love to ask “What’s the plan?” and I wish I had a pretty answer. Something like;

“Well, I’ll live here for X months, then I’ll sell this and upgrade to a cute motor home while I finish school…”

Nope.

The plan is: stay here, breathe, take it day by day.

Some mornings, I wake up and feel like a badass for taking control of my life.

Some mornings, I wake up and want to throw my keys in the woods and go back to bed.

Both are okay.

Why I’m Writing This

Because maybe you’re also in the middle of a messy, uncharted chapter. Maybe you’ve bought something you can’t believe you just bought, made a choice that feels terrifying, or committed to a new lifestyle without a blueprint.

Here’s the thing I’m learning:

You don’t have to know where it’s all going to be allowed to start.

I’m building something here — maybe a home, maybe just a season. But it’s mine. And that matters.

…I don’t know where this road leads, but I do know I’m walking it sober, and that changes everything.