The Dirty Secret About 'Living Free' No One's Posting

What happens when freedom becomes another cage?

The sun spilled gold across my windscreen as I pulled into yet another campsite that looked nothing like its description. My shoulders tensed—a familiar sensation.

Water tank: quarter full.

Phone battery: blinking red.

The nearest town: two hours back the way I came.

Third time this week.

I pressed my palms against my lower back, feeling the tightness coiled there like a spring wound too tight. My body trying to tell me something I wasn't ready to hear.

~ ~ ~

Morning now, three months later.

I'm writing this with bare feet pressed against cool floorboards, watching waves ripple silver just outside my bedroom window. Steam rises from my honey lemon tea as I take that first unhurried sip, knowing—truly knowing—that the bathroom is exactly twelve steps away, that water flows reliably from the tap, that my body can finally exhale.

The difference is profound.

~ ~ ~

There's a particular moment in van life nobody captures in those dreamy Instagram reels.

It's 9:47 PM, pitch dark except for your headlamp, squatting behind your vehicle because the campground toilets are a kilometer's walk through unfamiliar bush.

It's opening Maps for the fifth time that day, recalculating routes because the dirt road ahead has been washed out.

It's the moment you realise you've spent more time today coordinating survival than actually living.

Earlier this year, I found myself parked at a roadside stop in the-middle-of nowhere-South-Australia, my water pump making that death-rattle sound again. 46 degrees outside. No shade. The nearest mechanic already booked three weeks solid.

I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and felt something crack open inside me—not the beautiful kind of breaking open we talk about in spiritual circles, but the kind that whispers: enough.

My body was speaking in symptoms I couldn't ignore: restless sleep, jumping at small sounds, forgetting to eat until hunger turned to nausea. My shoulders permanently lived somewhere around my ears. The freedom I'd chased had become another kind of cage.

~ ~ ~

We talk about the root chakra in yoga class, seated safely on our mats in temperature-controlled rooms. But there's nothing quite like true rootlessness to teach you what grounding really means.

Two nights ago, I stood barefoot in the kitchen of this borrowed home, chopping vegetables for dinner. The same kitchen, the same knife, the same cutting board as yesterday.

Such simple continuity.

I felt something inside me unclench that had been tight for months—that constant vigilance, that perpetual planning, finally easing.

I slept ten unbroken hours that night. First time since December.

~ ~ ~

There's a tenderness in admitting what we need. In the silent midnight hours of 2022, I'd scroll through social media, double-tapping photos of women traveling solo, hashtag-vanlife, hashtag-freedom, hashtag-noregrets.

Their captions never mentioned the masculine strength it takes—checking tire pressure, fixing solar panels, calculating distances between fuel stops and campsites, staying alert for safety.

My friend Sue called it "the constant chess game" when we met briefly en route to Tasmania.

"I'm exhausted," she confessed over coffee, "but I feel like I can't say that."

We both nodded, understanding the unspoken agreement: acknowledge the challenge and you've somehow failed the freedom test.

~ ~ ~

Yesterday morning, I sat cross-legged on the balcony, palms resting on my thighs. Eyes closed, I sensed the floor beneath me, solid and unmoving.

Breath by breath, I felt the subtle shift—energy flowing downward rather than scattered in all directions. The constant background hum of anxiety quieting to something softer, something more whole.

After, I walked to the local beach without checking reviews or planning a route. I simply walked, knowing I could find my way back. A woman selling honey asked if I was new to town. "Just visiting," I said, "but staying awhile."

The words felt rich in my mouth.

~ ~ ~

We learn early what it means to be feminine: accommodate, adjust, apologise. Make yourself smaller. Take up less space.

Nobody teaches us that the most feminine power lies in expansion. In claiming territory within and without. In saying: this is what I need today, and I will move mountains to provide it for myself.

Not from demand or entitlement, but from the profound dignity of self-knowledge.

~ ~ ~

Three breaths after I decided I needed stability and a house-sit somewhere along the coastline, I met up with a friend who offered her holiday house to me, "Stay as long as you need, it's less than 80 meters from the water in a little rural suburb".

The synchronicity wasn't lost on me. Neither was the lesson: clarity creates possibility.

~ ~ ~

This morning, I unpacked my last bag. Placed my worn journals on the bedside table. Hung my favourite dress where I can see it instead of folded into a tight square in a storage bin.

I walked from room to room, touching doorframes, window ledges. Taking up space without apology.

My van sits in the driveway. Waiting, not abandoned.

There is wisdom in pausing. In recognising that roots need time to grow deeper before the next bloom. In understanding that changing direction isn't weakness—it's intelligence embodied.

~ ~ ~

What's calling to you beneath the noise?

What would happen if you listened not just with your ears, but with the wisdom of your body?

I'm learning that the truest adventure isn't about constant motion, but about following the compass of your own knowing—even if it's unconventional and it points toward stillness.

Feeling the weight of too many responsibilities but craving that same stillness? I've been there. If you're hearing the whisper to slow down but don't know where to begin, I'd love to help. Book a free clarity call with me.

Together we'll explore what you actually need to feel more peace in your life—no vanlife required 😉

Apply here 🧡