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?