Road Noise
For two years, I wandered the U.S. with no clue what I was doing. I took work calls from a hot spring, made friends with hippies named Moon and one dog who saw right through me. I also ate beans in six different states while crying—but that's advanced content we'll cover in Chapter 9.
I'm working on a book, but first there's this website to introduce it all. Basic facts: from early 2014 to 2016, I took a 2-year road trip in a trailer. Alone. By choice. To be totally transparent, it was actually 20 months, not 24. (I always round up—my foolproof method for never being late or surprised when life inevitably goes sideways.) Anyway, trust me, 20 months was plenty.
The reality is, I DID plan. Every afternoon after work, I'd jog around the neighborhood blasting Taylor Swift's "Blank Space" and "Style" on repeat through wired earphones, secretly plotting my escape from a full-time job to a part-time nomadic gig in a fully decked-out rolling rig.
The goal was two years on the road. But I had exactly zero experience towing anything larger than garbage cans to the curb, which meant there was a universe of things I had to learn. The trouble with ignorance, of course, is you don't know what you don't know. Tongue weight? Seriously, what the heck is that?
I planned to plan. I made lists, downloaded campground apps, and obsessively color-coded spreadsheets rating gas station snacks. But in the blink of an eye, I found myself alone in a 16-foot trailer parked near Joshua Tree, clutching a bent coat hanger and frantically Googling, “how to open stuck trailer door from inside.”
This isn’t a guidebook for the brave; this is a guidebook for the brave enough. It’s for people who've dreamed about torching their life and running away, but worried about the logistics of laundry day. It’s for women who aren't entirely sure if they're breaking free or just mildly losing their minds in scenic locations. Spoiler alert: It’s a bit of both.
For nearly two years, I wandered the U.S. with no clue what I was doing. I learned by trying and often it worked. I leveled the trailer with kitchen utensils and discovered you can't actually outrun storms even if you drive really, really fast. I figured out how to patch a leaking roof with duct tape and a questionable YouTube tutorial. I took important work calls from remote hot springs and made friends with retired skydivers, hippies named Moon, and one judgmental dog who saw right through me. I also ate beans in six different states while crying—but that's advanced content we'll cover in Chapter 9.
This book is part survival manual, part emotional scavenger hunt, and part love letter to every woman who's ever said, “Screw it—I’ll figure it out.”
And you will. Because we always do.
The book is coming. In the meantime get the updates by subscribing!
