Getting evicted by my own family wasn’t something I ever saw coming. One too many arguments, too many people crammed into a house with too much history. One day it just exploded, and the next thing I knew, my stuff was on the curb and my phone was blowing up with messages I didn’t even want to read. For a while, I just drove—no plan, nowhere to go, just me and everything I owned packed into this old van.
But somewhere along the line, I started making it my own. A thrifted blanket here, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, a small battery fan for the nights. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I found parking lots near the beach, quiet trails to sleep beside, and gas stations where I wasn’t judged for brushing my teeth.
Somehow, rock bottom gave me clarity. No more yelling, no more walking on eggshells. Just me, healing in motion. I’ve got peace now, even if it came wrapped in hard lessons. And this van? It’s not just a vehicle anymore—it’s my fresh start.
