What I've Learned as a Solo Female RVer

I remember the first night I slept alone in my van, a 2022 Ram Promaster. It was brand new, and still had that fresh, out-of-the-builder's-lot smell. Everything was clean, untouched, and perfectly in place-except for one thing: me.

I was tucked into the Idaho mountain range, nestled between pine trees on a forest service road. I always get to my "planned" overnight spot no later than 4:00 pm, definitely before sunset. I had cell service, which, as a solo female traveler is an absolute must because, in truth, I just spent my entire savings on my new home on wheels, and I needed to save up again for Starlink. This gave me just enough sense of safety. But still, I was alone. Just me, the stillness, the wildness of the land and the quiet hum of my own thoughts, but in reality, my mind was on a swirl of anxious "what ifs"!

This dream, living on the road, was born from the ashes of something I had to walk away from. I had just left an emotionally abusive relationship. My spirit was non-existent, and my confidence cracked. I didn't just want freedom, I needed to remember who I was.

In my home on wheels, I wanted to learn how to trust myself again, to hear my own voice without someone else drowning it out, and to finally take care of my needs first, without guilt and without apology.

No one talks about the mix of liberation and vulnerability that hits you when the sun goes down and you're alone on the edge of everything you've ever known. That night, I began to learn that solo van life isn't just about travel. It's about becoming.

There's a curated version of van life floating around out there: sunset views from the bed overlooking a crisp alpine lake, hair perfectly tousled and not a mosquito or fly in sight. However, solo female van life is an entirely different kind of initiation.

Sometimes I'm parked on sacred forest land with a mountain view, and other nights, I'm in a Cracker Barrel parking lot with one eye open, keys under my pillow, every window covered and praying my dog is on full alert to bark "stranger danger." If I must walk her after dark, I'll be out there in my hoodie whispering "go potty" like a spy on a mission.

Sometimes the spot I researched for hours ends up being a dead end-literally. Because Google Maps decided my 2022 Promaster should take a road better suited for goats. (And honestly, what did we do when there were only paper maps and no GPS voice to yell "recalculating"?)

This isn't a highlight reel. This is real life on the road. Real vulnerability. And when you're alone, there's no one else to navigate. No one to reassure you and no one to tell you you're okay. Which is exactly why this lifestyle has become one of my greatest teachers.

It's in the wrong turns, the unexpected overnights, the stealth parking in neighborhoods where you pray your blackout curtains actually work that I've had to rise into my own authority. To listen when my gut says, "Oh hell, NO," and not question it. To stay calm when plans unravel because the nervous system can go into full-blown fight or flight really quick, and I've had to learn how to bring myself back. To remember that I am really freaking capable, and ultimately resourceful, because my daddy raised me to believe there's always a way.

And above all... sacred. That's the truth of solo van life. It's not just a journey through landscapes. It's a devotion to listening to yourself, backing yourself and trusting your own inner voice-those tingling-skin instincts, those inner-belly flops-even in the well-lit parking lots. I used to think safety meant being parked near people, having full bars of cell service and locking every door twice before bed.

And yes, those things matter. But the deeper I traveled into this lifestyle, the more I realized that true safety begins inside the body. Because even with all the doors locked and good lighting, I could still lie awake with my heart pounding. Still feel that spiral of fear, or overwhelm, or what the hell am I doing? That's where the nervous system comes in. Solo van life has taught me to care for my nervous system like it's sacred. Because it is.

Now, before I even open my door in the morning, I place my hand on my heart and take three slow breaths. I breathe in safety. I exhale permission. Sometimes I hum out loud to calm my nerves and overthinking mind. Sometimes I stretch my arms up to the ceiling and notice my bare feet on the floor and whisper, "We're okay." These aren't big, dramatic rituals. They're tiny acts of inner re-parenting. Tiny ways I say to myself: "You're safe in your body. You've got you."

I don't always get it right. Some nights I still freeze or get caught in a loop of overthinking. But I come back to the tools I know that work: guided nighttime meditations, sleep frequency music and a soft hand on my heart to feel my heartbeat. And that's the sacred part-learning to return to yourself without judgment. Out here on the road, safety isn't just something I set up. It's something I practice.

People often ask me if I'm scared ofliving on the road alone. And my answer is honest: Sometimes, yes, but being scared doesn't mean I'm not strong. It just means I'm human.

What I've learned is this experience: self-trust isn't about never feeling fear, it's about knowing how to meet fear with presence, listening to the rhythm of my breath and anchoring into what I can control right now. It's about trusting myself enough to pay attention to things around me. To notice when someone has followed me too many turns. To choose a different overnight spot when something inside of me feels off, even if it took me hours to find it.

There's a myth that once you go solo van life, once you make the leap, once you park in the wild and breathe in that freedom-you're suddenly fearless. But the truth? Confidence is built in the doing. And self-trust is earned by showing up for yourself again and again. It's choosing to stay mindful of your surroundings with reverence. It's creating boundaries for devotion to self. It's breathing yourself back to calm with love and compassion.

I don't always get it right. However, every time I choose to honor what I feel over what I think I should do, I come home to myself just a little more. I think back to that first night in the Idaho mountains; how unsure I felt, how loud the "what ifs" were. I didn't realize then that fear wasn't something I had to override. I just needed to tune in.

To my breath. To the way my shoulders tensed. To that quiet voice inside saying, "Trust me-I've got you." Over time, that voice got clearer. Not because the road got easier, but because I got more present. With every breath, every boundary and every moment, choosing my well-being over external pressure was a reclamation.

Van life hasn't just shown me the country. It's given me the space to become the woman I always needed. One rooted in awareness, one led by self-care and one who listens and follows through because she knows she's worth protecting. And that's the kind of safety no campsite or parking lot can give you. That's the kind you carry inside.

This was originally published as "Solo, Scared, and Sovereign" in the November/December 2025 issue of Escapees Magazine.