They say children are resilient.

They say kids adapt.

They say family is what matters, not place.

They're right. But not in the way we expected.

The question came from our eight-year-old on a Thursday morning in Montana, three months into our life on wheels.

We were parked beside a lake that looked like a postcard. Mountains reflected in still water. Eagles circling overhead. The kind of scene that makes adults reach for their cameras and forget to breathe.

"Mom, when are we going home?"

Kitty looked up from the breakfast she was making on our tiny stove. I glanced over from my laptop where I was pretending to work while actually watching our kids skip stones.

Home.

The word hit differently than it used to.

For thirty-something years, home had been an address. A structure. A place you returned to at the end of the day.

But our eight-year-old was sitting in what we'd told him was home, asking when we were going there.

"What do you mean, buddy?"

"You know. Home. Our real house. With my room. And the neighbors. And my bed that doesn't fold up."

And there it was.

The question every van life family faces but no one talks about in the Instagram posts.

What happens when the adventure stops feeling like adventure and starts feeling like... displacement?

"This is our home now," Kitty said gently. "Remember? We talked about this."

"But it's not the same."

No. It wasn't.

Here's what we learned that morning:

Kids don't need explanations about why you chose this life. They need help figuring out how to live it.

They need new definitions.

That afternoon, we called a family meeting. All nine of us crammed into our tiny living space, which suddenly felt less cozy and more cramped.

"Let's talk about home," I said.

Silence.

"What made our old house feel like home?"

"My toys."

"My friends."

"The big kitchen."

"My own room."

"The backyard."

"Staying in one place."

Fair points. All of them.

"Okay. What makes this feel like home?"

More silence.

Then our six-year-old raised her hand.

"We're all together."

Simple. True. But apparently not enough for an eight-year-old who missed his bedroom.

That's when our oldest surprised us.

"Remember when we lived in the house back in Arizona, and Dad was always in his office, and Mom was always stressed about managing everything, and we never really hung out together unless it was dinner or bedtime?"

We remembered.

"Now we hang out all the time. Like, we eat breakfast together and watch the sunrise. We explore new places every day. We learn about rocks and stars and how to fix things when they break."

Pause.

"Maybe home isn't a place. Maybe it's... us. When we're actually together instead of just living in the same building."

Thirteen years old and already wiser than his parents.

But our eight-year-old wasn't convinced.

"I still miss my room."

"What if we made you a room in here?"

And that's how we learned our first lesson about home:

It's not about the space. It's about the intention.

We spent the next two hours reconfiguring our van. Creating defined spaces that belonged to each kid. Not rooms, but... territories. Places that were theirs in a world that was ours.

Our youngest got the top bunk—his "castle."

Our daughters claimed the dinette as their "art studio" during afternoon hours.

The boys designated the back seats as their "reading nook."

Suddenly, our 200-square-foot home had seven rooms.

Not because we'd built them. Because we'd named them.

That's when we learned our second lesson:

Home is what you call it.

But the real education was just beginning.

Three weeks later, we were in Utah. Our van broke down—again—and we had to stay in a motel for four days while it got fixed.

Two beds. Seven kids. One bathroom.

Chaos.

On the second night, as we were trying to negotiate sleeping arrangements and manage the inevitable meltdown that comes from too many people in too little space, our eight-year-old said something that stopped us cold.

"I want to go home."

"Back to Arizona?" Kitty asked.

"No. To the van."

Home.

He called the van home.

When did that happen?

How did that happen?

Here's when:

Somewhere between fixing flat tires together and learning constellations together and solving problems together.

Somewhere between shared adventures and shared responsibilities and shared stories around campfires.

Somewhere between being a family that lived together and becoming a family that chose each other every single day.

Here's how:

Home stopped being a noun and became a verb.

We homed ourselves.

We created belonging instead of waiting for it. We built traditions that fit in a van: Sunday morning pancakes cooked outside, evening stories told under stars, Monday morning "van meetings" where everyone got to vote on our next destination.

We discovered that home isn't where you're from.

It's who you become when you're together.

But the biggest lesson came six months later, when we decided to visit Arizona. To see the house we'd rented out. To let the kids see their old friends.

You know what they called it?

"Visiting."

Not "going home." Visiting.

The house felt strange to them. Too big. Too quiet. Too separate.

"Why does everyone have their own room?" our youngest asked. "How do you talk to each other?"

Good question.

How do you talk to each other when everyone has their own space, their own schedule, their own life?

How do you build intimacy when you can always retreat? How do you learn to solve problems together when you can always go to your room?

We stayed for two weeks.

By day ten, they were asking when we could go home.

To the van.

That's when we realized:

We hadn't just chosen a different way to live. We'd chosen a different way to love.

Love that requires proximity. Love that demands presence. Love that can't hide behind closed doors or busy schedules or the assumption that living together means being together.

Van life didn't teach our kids to be homeless.

It taught them to be home. Wherever they are. Whoever they're with.

It taught them that belonging isn't about having the biggest room or the best stuff or the most stability.

It's about showing up for each other when space is tight and patience is thin and everything that can go wrong does.

It's about choosing each other. Every day. In every weather. Through every breakdown.

Our kids didn't just adapt to van life.

They taught us what home actually means.

Not a place you go to escape.

A people you become together.

Your home might not have wheels. Your family might not fit in 200 square feet. Your adventure might look completely different from ours.

But the question remains the same:

Are you building a place where people live? Or a space where people love?

Because home isn't what you own.

It's who you choose. And who chooses you back.

Every single day.

Some conversations happen in boardrooms.

Some happen over dinner.

Ours happened at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, in whispers, while seven children slept down the hall.

The kind of conversation that splits your life into before and after. The kind that makes you realize you've been holding your breath for years.

This is that conversation.

We were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling like it held answers we couldn't find anywhere else.

It had been one of those days. You know the kind—where everything went according to plan, but somehow that felt like the problem.

Breakfast at 7. Math lessons at 9. Lunch at noon. Afternoon projects. Dinner. Baths. Stories. Bed.

Perfect routine. Perfect family. Perfect life.

So why did it feel like we were slowly disappearing?

"Indy?"

Kitty's voice in the dark. Soft. Careful.

"Yeah?"

"Are you happy?"

The question hung between us like a confession.

Not content. Not grateful. Not blessed.

Happy.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to mean it. I wanted to be the husband and father who had everything he needed right here in this house with these people.

But lying in the dark makes liars of us all.

"I don't know."

Three words that cracked something open.

"Me neither."

And there it was. The truth we'd been dancing around for months. Maybe years.

We had built a beautiful life. Stable income. Healthy kids. Strong marriage. Meaningful work. Everything we'd been told would make us happy.

So why did we feel like we were sleepwalking through our own existence?

"Remember when we used to talk about traveling?" Kitty whispered.

I remembered. Before the house. Before the routine. Before we convinced ourselves that dreaming was something you did before you grew up.

"Remember the van?"

The van.

Six months earlier, we'd seen a family at a gas station. Parents our age. Kids piling out of a converted van like clowns from a circus car. Laughing. Exploring. Alive in a way that made us ache.

"They're homeschooling on the road," I'd told Kitty.

"Can you imagine?" she'd said.

But we hadn't imagined. We'd filed it away under "nice for other people" and gone back to our regularly scheduled lives.

"What if we could?" Kitty's voice was getting braver in the darkness.

"Could what?"

"Travel. Homeschool. See the world with them while they're still young enough to think we're interesting."

The silence stretched between us.

Not the comfortable silence of people who understand each other. The terrifying silence of people standing at the edge of a cliff, wondering if they're brave enough to jump.

"We can't," I said. Because that's what responsible people say.

"Why not?"

Why not.

The question that changes everything.

I started listing the reasons. The house. The stability. The routine the kids needed. What people would think. What if it didn't work. What if we failed. What if we ran out of money. What if something happened.

What if. What if. What if.

"What if we regret not trying?"

Kitty's question cut through my catalog of fears like a sword through silk.

"What if we're so busy protecting them from risk that we forget to show them how to live?"

That's when I saw it.

The image that would haunt me until we finally listened to it.

Our kids at thirty, sitting in their own houses, staring at their own ceilings, wondering why they felt empty despite having everything they were supposed to want.

Wondering why their parents taught them to be safe but never taught them to be brave.

"The van would have to be huge," I said.

Not yes. But not no.

"We'd have to figure out work. And schooling. And money. And what happens when they want to see friends. And medical stuff. And—"

"Indy."

"Yeah?"

"We've been solving impossible problems our whole lives. Remember when you thought you couldn't work from home? Remember when I thought I couldn't homeschool one kid, let alone seven? Remember when we thought we couldn't afford this house?"

She was right.

Every impossible thing in our life had started with a conversation like this one.

Two people in the dark, brave enough to ask what if.

"What would we even do with the house?"

"Rent it. Sell it. Does it matter?"

"Where would we go?"

"Everywhere."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes."

"Takes for what?"

"To remember who we are when we're not trying to be who we think we should be."

That's when I started crying.

Not sad crying. Relief crying. The kind of tears that come when you finally stop pretending everything is fine.

"I've been so tired," I whispered.

"Me too."

"Not sleep tired. Soul tired."

"I know."

"What if the kids hate it?"

"What if they love it?"

"What if we're terrible at it?"

"What if we're amazing at it?"

"What if—"

"Indy."

"Yeah?"

"What if we just... tried?"

The word hung in the air like a prayer.

Tried.

Not succeeded. Not perfected. Not guaranteed.

Tried.

"Okay," I said.

Two letters that changed our lives.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

We didn't sleep that night.

We lay in the dark and planned. Whispered about van layouts and school curricula and work arrangements and route ideas until the sunrise crept through our blinds.

By morning, we weren't the same people who had gone to bed the night before.

We were people with a plan.

Here's what I wish I'd known about that conversation:

It wasn't about the van. It wasn't about travel. It wasn't about homeschooling or adventure or any of the logistics we spent the next six months figuring out.

It was about permission.

Permission to want something different. Permission to question the life we'd built. Permission to believe that happiness wasn't selfish, that dreams weren't irresponsible, that love sometimes looks like leap of faith.

That conversation didn't just change our plans.

It changed who we were brave enough to become.

Your conversation might not be about travel. Maybe it's about the job that's killing your spirit. Maybe it's about the relationship that stopped growing you. Maybe it's about the dream you filed away under "someday" years ago.

But it's coming.

That 11:47 PM moment when you finally get tired of pretending everything is fine.

When someone you love asks if you're happy, and you're finally brave enough to tell the truth.

The question isn't whether you'll have that conversation.

The question is: when it comes, will you be brave enough to say "okay"?

They don't show you this part on Instagram.

The part where everything that can go wrong does. Where your dream life becomes a nightmare in real time. Where you question every decision that led you to this moment.

We're about to show you anyway.

Because the truth about chasing your dreams isn't just the sunsets and freedom and magical family moments.

Sometimes it's sitting in a Walmart parking lot at 2 AM with seven crying children, no heat, and the growing realization that you might have made the biggest mistake of your life.

This is that story.

It was supposed to be simple. Drive from Moab to Denver. Six hours. Easy day. The kids were excited about seeing snow. Kitty had planned stops at geological sites that would turn the drive into a rolling classroom.

I had work calls scheduled from the road—because yes, even in van life, deadlines don't care about your adventure.

The universe had other plans.

Mile marker 47 outside Grand Junction, Colorado. That's where our dream life came to a screeching halt.

Literally.

The van started making a sound that no van should ever make. A grinding, metal-on-metal symphony that spoke one universal language: You're screwed.

I pulled over. Popped the hood. Stared at the engine like I had any idea what I was looking at.

I didn't.

Here's what van life Instagram doesn't tell you: when you're traveling with seven children and your home breaks down, you can't just call an Uber.

The nearest town was twenty miles back. Cell service was spotty. And it was getting dark.

Fast.

"Dad?" Our youngest looked up at me with those trusting eyes that assume parents have everything figured out. "Are we going to be okay?"

Honest answer? I had no idea.

Kitty was doing what she always does—keeping everyone calm while probably screaming inside. She turned the breakdown into an impromptu astronomy lesson, pointing out constellations while I tried to flag down help.

Three hours. That's how long we waited on the side of that Colorado highway.

Seven kids getting hungrier. Crankier. Colder.

One phone call to a tow truck that couldn't accommodate nine people.

And me, spiraling into every doubt I'd ever had about this decision.

What kind of father puts his family in this situation?

What kind of husband asks his wife to give up security for this chaos?

What kind of parent chooses adventure over stability when seven little lives depend on you?

The tow truck driver was named Bob.

Sixty-something. Weathered hands. Kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

He took one look at our situation and made a decision that still makes me tear up.

"Kids, you ever been in a tow truck?"

That's how we ended up in the most unusual convoy you've ever seen. Our van on the back of Bob's truck. Nine of us crammed into his cab, singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" while he told stories about growing up in these mountains.

Two hundred miles to the nearest mechanic who could help us.

By the time we arrived, it was past midnight. Everything was closed. Bob found us a motel—the kind with cigarette burns in the carpet and a vending machine that ate your dollar bills.

Seven kids. Two beds. One bathroom.

And the most important conversation Kitty and I have ever had.

"Are we crazy?" I whispered while the kids finally slept.

Kitty was quiet for a long time. The kind of quiet that happens when someone's processing something too big for words.

"Remember why we started this?"

I remembered. The office that felt like a cage. The life that looked perfect on paper but felt empty in my chest. The children who asked for adventures while we gave them schedules.

"But what if we're being selfish? What if—"

"Stop." She turned to face me in the dark. "Look at them."

I looked. Seven peaceful faces. Scattered across motel beds like they were camping under stars.

"They've seen more of the world in six months than most kids see in a lifetime. They've learned that problems can be solved. That kindness exists in unexpected places. That their parents are brave enough to choose love over fear."

She was right.

But here's what I learned that night in a dingy Colorado motel:

Dreams don't exempt you from disasters. Following your heart doesn't guarantee easy roads. Choosing authenticity over security doesn't mean choosing perfect over imperfect.

It means choosing alive over safe.

The van needed a new transmission. Three thousand dollars we hadn't budgeted. A week in Grand Junction while we waited for parts.

Want to know what happened during that week?

Our kids became local celebrities at the mechanic's shop, asking questions and watching the repair process like it was the Discovery Channel.

Kitty found a library and turned our enforced stay into an intensive study of Colorado geology.

I worked from a coffee shop and discovered that some of my best ideas come when I'm not sitting in my usual spot.

We lived.

Not just survived. Lived.

And when Bob stopped by to check on us—because that's the kind of human he is—our youngest ran up to him like he was meeting a superhero.

"Bob! Guess what we learned about transmissions!"

That's when it hit me. This wasn't our worst travel day.

This was our most real one.

Because anyone can post sunset photos and talk about freedom. Anyone can share the highlights and call it authentic.

But it takes courage to stay when the dream gets messy.

It takes faith to believe in the journey when the road disappears.

It takes love to choose adventure together, especially when adventure chooses chaos first.

Three years later, we still talk about the night we met Bob.

Not because it was fun. Because it was true.

Because our kids learned that when things fall apart, you don't fall apart with them.

Because Kitty and I discovered that we're stronger together than either of us is comfortable being alone.

Because sometimes the worst day becomes the story you're most grateful for.

Your dream won't always cooperate. Your plan will fall apart. Your perfectly curated life will get messy and real and harder than you expected.

That's not a bug in the system.

That's the point.

The question isn't whether you're brave enough to chase your dreams when they're easy.

The question is: are you brave enough to keep choosing them when they get hard?

You're scrolling again, aren't you?

Watching other people live their highlight reels while you sit at your kitchen table, wondering when your real life will finally begin.

We used to do that too.

There was this moment when we realized we'd been living someone else's dream and calling it our own. February 2023—a Tuesday morning that felt like every other Tuesday morning, except this one broke us open.

I (Indy) was sitting in our home office, deep in code, when the sound of seven voices erupted from the kitchen. Kitty was orchestrating another homeschool miracle—teaching fractions to our two daughters while our five boys turned rulers into medieval weapons.

"Dad! Mom says you have to help us build the trebuchet!"

The trebuchet.

That's when it hit me.

Here I was, building digital dreams, while our children were begging me to build something real. Something that mattered. Something we could touch.

But I was too busy chasing the next breakthrough to notice the magic happening twenty feet away.

You see, we had the perfect setup.

I worked from home. Kitty homeschooled our seven souls. We had location independence, family time, endless potential. From the outside, we'd figured it out.

From the inside? We were drowning in our own success.

I was locked behind my office door, building applications and chasing ideas while Kitty single-handedly raised our children. Teaching math, mediating wars, planning lessons, keeping our world spinning—all while I optimized code in isolation.

The truth cuts when you're ready to hear it:

I had all the tools for freedom, but I was using them to build a beautiful prison.

Six months before that Tuesday, we'd whispered about a different life. What if my office had wheels? What if we could homeschool on highways? What if our children learned geography by living it instead of memorizing it?

We'd sketched this wild dream—converting a van, taking my work mobile, turning the entire country into our classroom.

But then reality whispered louder than dreams.

Another project to launch. Another idea to pursue. Another breakthrough that was surely just one more late night away.

So we stayed. Because that's what you do when you have seven children and big dreams, right? You choose security over soul. You pick the sensible over the sacred.

Here's what no one tells you about playing it safe:

It's the most dangerous thing you can do to your spirit.

That Tuesday morning, looking around my office filled with monitors and potential, I felt more trapped than inspired. The walls weren't made of drywall—they were made of expectations I'd built myself.

Meanwhile, Kitty was pouring her heart into our children every single day. And I was missing it. Missing the questions only a ten-year-old asks. Missing the moments when eyes light up with understanding. Missing the chance to show them that work doesn't have to feel like separation.

That's when it hit us both:

We were successfully building a life we'd never actually chosen.

You know this feeling, don't you? When you've checked every box—meaningful work, beautiful family, financial stability—but you wake up wearing someone else's clothes. Living someone else's script.

I walked to the kitchen. Found Kitty teaching our youngest about mountains while preventing our middle children from recreating ancient battles in the living room.

"Remember the van idea?"

She didn't miss a beat. "The van."

Not a question. Recognition.

"What if we actually did it?"

The pause that changes everything.

"The children ask about it every week," she whispered. "And honestly? I think we need it more than they do. We've been building a life that looks beautiful from the outside but doesn't feel like ours anymore."

Here's what we wish someone had told us:

That voice whispering about a different life? It's not irresponsible. It's not selfish.

It's your soul refusing to settle for less than authentic.

Everyone thought we were crazy. "You can't raise seven children in a van. What about stability? Education? Your work?"

But here's what they couldn't see:

We'd already been doing the impossible. Kitty had been creating educational magic for years. I'd proven location didn't matter for the work that mattered to me.

The only thing holding us back was the story we'd been telling ourselves about what "responsible" looked like.

That was eighteen months ago.

As we write this, we're sitting at a picnic table in Zion National Park. Our children are turning red rocks into geology lessons they'll never forget. My laptop is open, finally building from a place of authenticity instead of obligation.

Kitty's planning tomorrow based on what sparked wonder today.

Our office has wheels. Our classroom changes with the sunrise. And for the first time, we're building something that feels like us.

This isn't about vans or roads or homeschooling.

This is about the moment you realize:

The life you're living doesn't have to be the life you keep living.

Maybe your awakening looks different. Maybe it's that trip you've been postponing. Maybe it's the work that calls to you at 3 AM. Maybe it's saying yes to what scares you and no to what numbs you.

The details don't matter.

What matters is this: right now, reading these words, you have a choice.

Keep scrolling. Keep sitting. Keep building someone else's dream and calling it your own.

Or listen.

Listen to the voice that brought you here. The one trying to tell you something sacred about who you really are and what you're meant to become.

Your comfort zone is beautiful.

But nothing you're meant to become can grow there.

The question isn't whether you're brave enough to change your life.

The question is: are you brave enough to stop hiding from the life that's already calling your name?