In the Fall of 2021, after getting many rejection emails from apartment rental companies and paying off credit card debt, I was approved to use some benefits from the German government to buy a car. Immediately, I knew what I wanted to do: purchase a van I could live in. I’d been interested in the idea of van life for years. I made a post in a local Telegram group with the model I was looking for (Volkswagen Caddy or similar) and my budget. I received only one response in reply, and this van–who I named Emily Dickinson–turned out to be mine.

In December 2023, when I was first preparing to pack myself and my cat into a 1996 Volkswagen T4 Transporter and travel around Europe, I was excited and hopeful. In April 2024, when I thought this all might have been a horrible mistake, I was doubtful and unsure of the path ahead. Now, with close to one year of van life under my belt, I feel a confidence in myself and sense of security in my housing that is totally new to me. Van life has also been an important lesson in ‘adulting,’ a process I came to slowly in my 20s.

Nothing about this trip has gone as planned. My original plan was that I would travel to Portugal, do an internship there for school, and then drive up to the United Kingdom for festival season. Once I decided to leave the internship (less than 28 days after I had arrived), I was sh*t out of luck with only 130 EUR (140 USD) to my name. Soon after, I was flat broke and realized that I could have made much better choices to plan ahead for my van life.

Happily, I managed to pull through with some help from my support system of friends and acquaintances. By now, I have driven about 10,000 miles across Europe. Emily Dickinson is my first-ever car, and she is three months older than I am. Having an older car comes with a steep learning curve: I have learned about leaking coolant pipes and the need for regular oil changes the hard way. When that car is also your house, any repair takes on extra importance (and stress).

I grew up on the East Coast of the United States of America, and moved to Germany nearly three years ago. In Germany, I thought, perhaps I might find the home I had searched for as a young adult. Rent prices in Germany had to be cheaper than those in the U.S., right? To my surprise, I arrived in the capital city of Berlin in the midst of a housing crisis. Skyrocketing rents made renting or owning an apartment an impossible dream for anyone who isn’t fairly privileged.

I clung to my dream of having my own apartment for two years. I made regular efforts to turn the dream into a reality, making non stop phone calls, and sending messages to every WhatsApp and Telegram group. I lived with three different sets of roommates during my search, but I kept looking for my own home. Despite my efforts, it was clear that the affordable housing crisis made my dream an impossibility. In the process, I also quickly reached my emotional threshold for roommate dynamics and was ready to get out of shared housing. When I got the news that I could buy a car, I realized that, for the moment, this was as close as I was going to get to having my own home. I jumped at the opportunity. 

Plus, I’ve always loved driving, ever since I learned how to—pretty late for Americans—at age 23. It turns out that you can, with some limits, drive away from your problems. What I enjoyed most back in the U.S. were 4-hr stretches on the road where I could put on a playlist or an album that matched my mood. I’d completely lose myself in driving. In Europe, people are amazed by my ability to drive any distance longer than one hour. I have to remind them that in the U.S., many of us drive an hour one-way daily commute. 

As a Type-A planner—a nod to my Virgo sign and my former life as a Girl Scout–I had done some research about van life. In 2020, I read the book Off Grid Life by Foster Huntington and considered the different models of vans and trucks I could use for living on wheels. In 2021, I learned about a Black queer Buddhist monk who traveled the United States in their van with their cat. I was inspired by their bravery. I ended up contacting this monk, and they gave me one of the best pieces of advice I could have for my van life: put the cat litter box on the floor of the passenger front seat. I watched their YouTube channel and felt a bit dismayed about the task of building out a van from scratch with new floors, cupboards, and a bed platform! Happily, when I found Emily Dickinson in October of 2023, she was already built out with a bed platform and storage cupboards–which for me was a major selling point.

In terms of stocking up my van with supplies before leaving on New Year’s Day 2024, It turned out that my instincts about what I and my cat needed to live comfortably were spot-on. When we finally did leave, I found the transition to living in the van to be relatively seamless for me. My cat, on the other hand, was pretty unhappy for the first two weeks. However, I can now say that she is cool with it–as long as we can park in a green place where she can run free and return at night when she wishes. My cat actually seems much happier living in a van where she and I can have our own space than in a cramped apartment, or even a house, with multiple roommates.

Having my own space has been amazing, and a great change after years of having roommates. In the weeks before I left to travel across Europe, I used to just get in the van and run the engine (this also kept the engine warm during the freezing nights of Germany in December!). I’d sit in the driver’s seat peacefully, sipping hot chocolate and listening to music on the Bluetooth radio the previous owner installed. Those thirty minutes per night, where I was in a place which was just mine, were some of the most grounding moments I’d had in years.

Did I feel scared about going out into the relative unknown, as a woman alone? Not really. I am more afraid of violations of trust and power in relationships and institutions. For that reason, I have rarely feared the unknown. Life has proven that danger is disappointingly closer than you think. I am a very pragmatic sort of believer in, “The call is coming from inside the house.” Outside is where safety lies. I can at least drive away from any weirdo I encounter on the road.

Of course, safety is relative: once, a man tried to break into my car while I was sleeping in an overnight parking spot in Spain. That was on my fourth day of van life. Fortunately, I awoke to the sound of him attempting to break open my 1990s locks with a flathead screwdriver. I screamed “What the F*$CK!” and he ran away. I moved parking spots, and learned to disguise my antique locking system with window covers.

As a woman traveling alone, I have to be constantly on my guard; being unfriendly is a great strategy for safety. Van life gives me constant reminders to always listen to my instincts about people, places, and situations. I no longer doubt myself or my gut feelings. On the road, being “nice” could cost you your life, or at the very least, your sense of safety and well-being. In this way, living on the road has been very empowering for me as a woman. Men are a constant and present threat; but as I say to other van-lifers—especially the elderly ones who look at me with concern from their high-end RVs and ask how I can travel alone—to paraphrase the words of author Elissa Washuta, “You can die anywhere, because the men are everywhere.” 

It is not a happy sentiment; and, if your idea of #VanLife comes primarily from Instagram or TikTok, it’s a truth you may not want to read. However, it is a cold and important reality that new van-lifers—particularly anyone who is not a cishet man, must be aware of. It’s a bit like checking the ocean currents and the weather before you go ocean kayaking or surfing; you have to be aware of the dangers so that you can proceed into your experience with safety!

I’ve sadly witnessed more than one instance of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV) on the road between cisgender hetero couples. They remind me of the Gaby Petito case in the U.S., and I started keeping a list of crisis hotlines in Europe on my phone to give to women in need. Personally, I feel safer being a woman traveling alone with my cat on the road than I would with a man. In the smallish space of my van, I can reflect, think, spend time with my adorable cat, and get real with myself.

I have also received great kindnesses on the road. A lovely mechanic in the mountains of Portugal once did a full set of repairs on my van for the measly sum of 50 EUR (53 USD) after I told him, loosely translated, “I am not a person of great riches!”  The day before I left Portugal, a Black woman came up to me in the grocery store and pressed two butterfly charms to wear in my dreadlocks into my hands before walking away. The butterfly is an incredibly special animal to me, and it felt like a sign of good things to come. 

It reminded me of the same feeling I had at the beginning of my journey where I would drive, and listen tothe song ‘Home’ by Iyamah (shoutout to the soundtrack of Issa Rae’s ‘Insecure’!) with the biggest smile on my lips. If you listen to the lyrics, they accurately reflect my experience of moving into my van. I’ve found not only a home for myself but also a new, more mature version of myself. I don’t expect to live this way forever. Yet, I feel that vanlife is an important stepping stone for me in learning financial responsibility, growing into an empowered woman, and in assessing some of the realities of being a homeowner. I still look forward to the day when I can have my own home (not on wheels). Right now, I do enjoy that hiking trails and scenic views are often just outside my van door. Emily Dickinson is my first home, but I know she will not be my last.