Following the Feeling Instead of the Plan: Part 1 of The Road to Reinvention Series

This post begins a short series about my RV renovation; a project that has turned into something far more meaningful than paint, tools, and design choices. Along the way, it has become a reflection on freedom, reinvention, and creating a life that feels deeply aligned with who I am now.

If you’re in a season of transition yourself ... wondering what’s next, feeling the pull toward something different, or simply wanting a life that feels more like you, I hope this series offers a bit of inspiration, encouragement, and perhaps even a little magic along the way.

Over the next few posts, I’ll be sharing the real story behind this journey—how the RV found me, what the renovation (and reinvention) process has been like, and how it’s helping me shape the next chapter of my life. I’m glad you’re here for the ride.
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Sometimes the next chapter of your life doesn’t arrive as a carefully thought-out plan. Sometimes it shows up quietly on your phone while you’re sipping your morning tea.

That’s more or less how my RV came into my life.

After selling Ripple on Silver Lake, my beloved Victorian lodging dream property, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. Ripple had been a huge chapter of my life and something I had manifested quite literally out of thin air. Before that there was my ski school chapter and my sex ed teacher chapter, both of which came to an abrupt end during Covid.

The day of the closing I headed into my next adventure without really knowing how it would play out. My plan was simple: spend a few months in Florida getting eyes on my dad and helping him  figure out his next steps.

I never planned on staying. But life had other ideas.
After a few falls, a couple of hospital admissions, an extended rehabilitation stay after a fractured arm, and helping him move into assisted living, a few months had stretched into more than a year and a half.

I was grateful to have the flexibility to be there for my dad and dedicated time to spend with him. But there was always a quiet voice inside reminding me that I was not living my own life.

Some days were stressful. Some days were overwhelming. Some days were depressing. Some days consisted of taking care of everything on his list and nothing on my own. There were times when I only stopped long enough to take in the sunset over the ocean. Those were the times when I remembered that although this was the life I was living, I was not living my own life. I was living someone else's version of it.

When I let my thoughts wander, I remembered the life I had left behind up north and compared it to the life I was living in a Florida retirement community. Deep down I knew something had to change. I was losing myself, little by little. 

I started to set some boundaries around my time. I spent more time writing. I chose to invest a portion of the proceeds from Ripple into a long-term coaching program that would support me in offering virtual live events in the human potential space. I briefly considered buying another property—a tiny house on a quiet piece of land beside a brook, but after being tethered to Ripple for so long, the thought of owning and maintaining another property didn’t feel like the right path.

I started letting myself dream about what might be out there beyond my caregiving responsibilities. One thing was crystal clear. I wanted freedom. I wanted that peaceful, easy feeling. I wanted to wake up in a beautiful place and do exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted a change of scenery. I wanted to be close to nature. Not the manicured lawn and gardens I'm surrounded by now, but rather the under the open sky kind of nature. I wanted to travel ... but not the kind most people think of. I wasn’t interested in packed itineraries, tight schedules, or checking destinations off a list.

I was craving something different.
The freedom to wander.
To explore at my own pace.
Or to just be.
To live in that peaceful, easy feeling I’ve heard about in that song.

I wanted my own space, on my own timeline, where I could write, teach, coach, train, spend time in nature, and create a life that felt authentic and fully alive.

Somewhere along the way, the idea of a tiny house slowly evolved into the idea of an RV.
Not a luxury tour bus style coach. Just a small home on wheels. A place that could serve as my hotel room, writing studio, and sanctuary wherever I happened to land.

I had been casually looking for months, but nothing quite fit. Nor did it need to as my plan to travel was off in the distant future. Maybe a year or so down the line.

Then one morning in June of 2025, while I was staying overnight with a friend in Tampa on my way to a training in Charleston, South Carolina, something unexpected happened. I packed my suitcase and set it by the door, ready to begin the long drive north. I made one last cup of tea, curled up on the couch for a few quiet minutes, and picked up my phone.

And there it was.

An RV listing popped up on Facebook Marketplace. It was bigger than what I had originally been looking for, but the price was right, the mileage was low, and it seemed to check all the boxes.

I called immediately. The woman on the other end answered a few questions, and the whole thing started to feel too good to be true. I assumed I would have to fly back later to see it, and that it would surely be gone by then.

But then she told me something that made me laugh out loud. At the same time I got goosebumps. I always pay attention to goosebumps. The RV was just two and a half miles away from where I was staying. It felt like my RV had found me.

Ten minutes later I was standing inside it. The owner walked me through everything, and I’ll be honest—it scared the hell out of me. RVs are essentially small houses on wheels, complete with electrical systems, plumbing, propane, generators, water tanks, and a variety of other things I had never managed before.

When I owned Ripple, I had a whole list of professionals I could call when something broke.
This was different. I mentioned that to the owner while we sat down to talk.
“I have to admit,” I told him, “owning an RV scares the hell out of me.”
He asked, “Have you ever owned a house?”
“Yes,” I said. “I just sold a circa-1903 Victorian lodging property.”
He laughed. “Now that would scare the hell out of me,” he said. “If you could manage that, you can certainly manage an RV. You’ll learn. And I’ll help you.”

That reassurance mattered. But truth was, the RV had appeared about a year earlier than I had planned to buy one. Yet there it was. 

Before committing, I called two RV-savvy friends and asked them to walk me through what I should check. One of them even came out to look at it. Structurally, it was solid. In fact, it was in great shape for its age.

Aesthetically, however, it had clearly lived through several design eras. Some of the vinyl wallpaper was peeling from years of Florida heat. The window treatments were brown, gold, and painfully outdated. The walls were a mix of brown vinyl and an unfortunate shade of gold. The kitchen backsplash was brown, tan, and white. The countertops and tables were a sort of marbleized rose-taupe mix that never quite decided what color it wanted to be. The cabinets were a dark maple somewhere between golden maple and cherry, and the floors were a brown faux tile.

None of it was my style. My friends had renovated several RVs and assured me that everything was fixable. I didn't give much thought to what that actually meant, but fixable got filed as a positive.

The good news?
The L-shaped couch was brand new and would make a cozy writing nook.
The driver and passenger seats were new as well—and they swiveled, reclined and were so comfortable.
There was even a little desk setup on the dash that I could imagine using as a writing space.

Beneath all the dated design choices and peeling vinyl wallpaper, I could see something else.
Potential.

I also had something incredibly valuable.
Time.

This RV had arrived about a year earlier than my actual travel plans, which turned out to be perfect. It meant I could learn slowly while making the space my own. So I took a deep breath, sealed the deal, and drove it straight into storage.

Over the next few months, I took it out occasionally to a nearby state park campground so I could begin learning how everything worked. Electric hookups. The generator. I learned just enough to run the air conditioner, the fan, and the microwave. Water, propane, and sewer systems felt overwhelming at first, so I happily used the campground bathhouse.

During one of those visits, I lived in the RV for a full week. It was pure heaven to be in my own space and not have the responsibility of caring for my dad. 

That week became something unexpected. It became a pause. I had the chance to sit quietly inside my little house on wheels and notice how it felt. What worked. What didn’t. What felt right and what I wanted to change. I began to see it not as the space it currently was, but as the space it could become.

In many ways, it mirrored the season of life I was in. Letting go of what no longer fit. Imagining what might. And perhaps most importantly, paying attention to how I felt along the way.

This wasn’t a thinking journey.
It was a feeling journey.

Eventually I started focusing on the physical transformation. I spent hours watching YouTube videos about repairing vinyl, priming walls, painting cabinets, caulking seams, decorating, and generally figuring out how RVs are put together. I spoke with professionals who understood paint, materials, and what works inside a moving vehicle. I also talked with ChatGPT, my AI friend who patiently walked me through all kinds of projects.

It became a long season of learning, imagining, and preparing. 

Then in March of 2026, I finally picked up an X-Acto knife and went to work cutting away the loose vinyl. I removed all the window treatments that had been tightly screwed into the walls. Throwing it all out the RV door felt therapeutic. And on the inside, the space began to breathe a bit.

Looking back now, that moment feels symbolic. That knife. Those screws. Everything that came after. It was the beginning of cutting away what no longer fit. Throwing away what no longer looked good to me. Discarding what no longer served a purpose. And most importantly, letting go of anything that didn’t match the energy I wanted to create for my next chapter.

But the real transformation of the RV—and of me—was only just beginning.
That story is coming next.

This season of my life has been filled with questions. Not the kind you answer quickly, but rather the kind you sit with. If you're in a similar place, you might enjoy a simple reflection guide I created called “What Would Your Life Be Like If…?”  Just three powerful questions designed to help you pause, reflect, and reconnect with what matters most as you imagine your next chapter.
👉 Download the free 3-Question Reflection Journal instantly.


If you enjoy the reflection process, there’s also a full 12-Question Reflection Journal available for those who want to explore these questions more deeply.
👉 Download the 12-Question Reflection Journal instantly.
or
👉 Purchase the paperback 12-Question Reflection Journal on Amazon.

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