It’s time to get off the road.
If you’d told me a few months ago I’d be saying those words, I wouldn’t have believed it.
I Didn’t See It Coming.
I thought it was still years off in my future, a vague vision of my nomad life ending when I got “old.”
I’m 67, happily on the road for almost 9 years. I loved it so much I designed a website, CosmicNomadVoyager, and wrote a book about women on the road, Wild Women On The Road; A Woman’s Guide To Nomadic Living in the Modern Age. (Amazon.)
My systems ran like clockwork … daily maneuvering of heavy portable solar panels and batteries, trash runs, water runs, shower runs, grocery runs, hygiene without running water, strategizing solar power for the fridge, phone, lights, fans, laptop, and all the other little accessories. With an outdoor kitchen, meal planning based on the weather. Setting up camp, moving camp, packing and unpacking the van … successfully keeping up with all the routines of nomad life.
Nomad life in a minivan means living IN weather, hot or cold, blazing sun or cloudy skies for days, wind storms, hail storms, rain storms … and through it all I’ve thrived! Bad weather days were always followed by days in nature so breathtaking it was all worth it.
I became proficient at minimalism in a tiny space, loved snuggling into my comfy little bed at night, and cherished the days of sacred communion with nature.
I was proud of myself for rising to the formidable challenges of nomad life, no small feat with chronic illness. Eventually, I considered myself a seasoned nomad.
I LOVED it. Was IN LOVE with it.
I was thriving!
Living out of a minivan, like nomadic life itself, is demanding. It’s exhilarating, but strenuous. Despite that, my mind, body, and soul flourished.
Then, this winter in the Southwest, I hit a wall.
Like a rubber band stretched too far, for the first time, nomadic life threatened to break me.
I Wrote This While Still On The Desert:
“I’m writing from a very raw, vulnerable place. My body is giving me the urgent message to head back to the Northeast (to family) as soon as I can. My intuition says this may be my last year out here.
It’s devastating.
I’m IN it. Not only is there overwhelming physical pain and fatigue, but deep emotional pain. This ending is very much like the grief of a bad breakup … “they left, and you didn’t see it coming” kind of grief.
I’ve lost the joy of nomad life, every day is a struggle just to survive. Living in nature is not easy. It’s demanding and harsh, and takes tremendous physical, emotional, mental, and even financial resources to not just survive, but thrive.
Now, every desert sunset feels like a goodbye, every starry sky a counting of my tears.”
What The Hell Happened?
In hindsight, there were subtle signs of my body slowing down.
This year, after my fall trip from NY to AZ, I noticed extra fatigue. I chalked it up to the long trip cross-country, combined with another birthday behind me.
But from there, things only got worse.
First, in November, a concerning episode of heart palpitations that sent me to the ER.
Then, months of traveling to multiple appointments with a cardiologist, including a cardiac CT. Thankfully, nothing acute showed up.
After that, in January, I experienced a major relapse of chronic illness. ME/CFS, an illness marked with malfunctioning energy systems, came back with a vengeance. Increasing pain and persistent profound fatigue, including entire body “crashes,” became problematic while living solo out of my minivan.
Daily nomad chores that had gradually strengthened my body now left me in pain and with negative energy reserves every single day.
I lost my creative juices and could barely function, much less maintain a creative or social life.
I lost my joy, falling into a devastating depression.
My sister back East checked on me every day. I had support from family and other nomads, but when I realized that what I needed was to get off the road, it crushed me.
By then, I couldn’t travel back to my family. The Northeast was buried in snow, and most of the route cross-country was in a deep winter freeze. I considered a plane ticket, but what about my van? None of it was financially feasible.
I was stuck.
I did all the things, pulling out all the tools from Reiki and Life Coach training, among other things. They were all stop-gaps at best, giving me only temporary relief.
Sometimes All You Can Do is Hang On For Dear Life!
When I became a nomad, the road had beckoned me with a pull I couldn’t resist. This time I was hearing a different message … just as clear, screaming, “It’s time to get off the road!”
When the Northeast winter finally broke, I traveled back to NY, to my daughter and her husband who’d graciously offered me a room in their home. It was a heroic 16-day solo trip cross-country considering the condition I was in.
Now What?
Nine years ago, I embarked on a life rich with the intense challenges and joys of nomadic life, and never once thought about turning back.
Now, after a 9 year nomadic journey, I’ve moved out of the van and into a house.
The lack of modern conveniences as a nomad never bothered me much, it was a small price to pay for the freedom and fulfillment I’d experienced as a nomad.
Now, it’s a relief to have running water, light switches, a flush toilet, and an indoor stove. I’m relishing not having to fight the elements just to manage the basic necessities of life.
Human Beings Are Survivors, Aren’t We!
The despair has lifted, and I feel more like myself. I even got my guitar out again! Although I’m not looking forward to winter in the Northeast, it’s comforting to know I’ll be spending winter holidays with my family.
After a few months of rest and recovery, I’ve discovered that nomad life is a part of my very soul. I have years of memories on the road, memories that now give me great joy. The last 9 years as a nomad have made a lasting impression on my psyche.
Who knows, maybe I’ll start a support group for ex-nomads. Or even better, maybe eventually get back on the road, in a way that supports my body.
I know I’ll be writing from my nomad soul for a long time to come.
After all, my nomad years have been some of the best years of my life, and I still have some stories left to tell.
