At 24, I was living the life I thought I wanted. Surrounded by anatomy notes, six cups of coffee, and a stack of certifications and academic achievements, I was in my first year of med school and on my way to becoming a doctor.
My life had become a revolving door of lectures, cadavers, and exams that brought me to tears. I worked 12 to 16 hours a day, barely took any breaks, and felt guilty for spending even 30 minutes cooking dinner.
At first, this all felt worth it for the title, eventual paycheck, and comforting belief that I was helping people. But something inside me whispered: “This isn’t where you’re meant to be.”
I knew my lifestyle wasn’t sustainable
Before starting medical school, I had been working as a first responder during the COVID-19 pandemic. While transporting patients, I’d often strike up conversations to pass the time.
Inspired by my own love for travel, I’d ask them about their favorite destinations, and occasionally, I’d get some inspiring stories. More often than not, though, they’d tell me they’d had an entire bucket list planned before they realized how easily life can slip by.
As I worked tirelessly in school, I realized my patients were right about how terrifyingly easy it is to get sucked into the never-ending cycles of life.
Within a single year, it felt like I had completely forgotten who I was. The things that once brought me joy — photography, travel, and creativity — were gone. I wasn’t living. I was surviving.
So, after many tears, sleepless nights, and conversations with myself I didn’t want to have, I quit school. The decision wasn’t easy, and I worried about what my family and friends would think. Most importantly, though, I was scared I’d be letting myself down.
However, I knew the lifestyle wasn’t sustainable for me, and deep down, I knew I needed a change.
With med school off the table, I started thinking about what makes me, me
Growing up in Colorado, I always loved camping. As a kid, I would geek out seeing all the fancy RVs, and I loved speaking with full-time travelers.
I always dreamed about traveling full-time, and living in a van seemed like the most convenient way to do it. After all, your house literally moves with you.
Unfortunately, I labeled that lifestyle a fantasy because of the demanding hours and location-dependent nature of working in healthcare. Once med school was off the table, however, I decided to follow my heart and purchase an RV from a local dealership.
At first, I didn’t have a perfect plan in place for what I’d do next — just a deep craving for adventure and a willingness to figure things out as I went.
What I didn’t anticipate, however, was how steep the learning curve would be or how deeply it would test me in many ways.
Financially, the transition was brutal. I juggled multiple remote jobs, freelance contracts, and odd side hustles just to stay afloat while slowly building my own blogging and photography business. Even now, my income comes from multiple streams, and adaptability isn’t optional.
Physically, RV life demanded even more. RVs break all the time. There’s no landlord to call, and insurance is frustrating to coordinate because I’m never in the same location for too long.
I’ve spent nights screaming into my pillow while navigating fixes that cost thousands of dollars, but those instances are balanced by the mornings I practice yoga outside the RV to gorgeous backdrops.
RV life isn’t always easy, but I couldn’t be happier with my decision
RV life and solo entrepreneurship aren’t easy. They require humility, grit, and constant problem-solving. But they’ve also given me access to over 15 national parks, hundreds of miles of trails, thousands of photographs, and a life that finally feels like my own.
There are times when I’ve questioned myself, especially when things go wrong, but I’ve never questioned my decision to pursue what I love. If anything, I mostly regret losing the financial stability I could’ve had as a healthcare provider — especially when I’m shelling out money to fix my RV.
Whenever that happens, though, I remind myself that life is hard no matter what path you choose. The beauty is that you get to choose your “hard.”
Plus, I take solace in knowing I’m still helping others, just in a different way. These days, healing might look like standing on top of my RV with a cup of tea, watching the sun set over the mountains, and reminding others that they can do the same.
I may not be treating cancer, but through my work, I can help people reconnect with curiosity, creativity, and a sense of aliveness they may have lost. This gives me more purpose than medical school ever did.
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