Listen to Marges story below:
My name is Marge. I’m 65 years old, and for the past three years, the open road has been my home. Not by choice at first, but now, I can’t imagine any other life.
I used to have a little house in Oklahoma, a modest place that was comfortable enough for me and my old Labrador, Sadie. After my husband passed five years ago, things got tough financially. Social Security barely covered the essentials, and I couldn’t keep up with property taxes and repairs. The day I sold the house, I cried like a baby. It felt like I’d lost everything. But looking back now, it was just the beginning of a new chapter.
I bought a used Class B van with the proceeds—an older one, but sturdy. I call her “Miss Daisy.” It was scary at first. I didn’t know a thing about solar panels, water tanks, or how to find safe places to sleep. But I learned. Boy, did I learn. And I discovered that there’s a whole world out here, a community of folks like me who’ve had to reimagine what life looks like after the traditional “American Dream” fizzled out.
Every morning starts the same way. I step out of Miss Daisy, coffee mug in hand, and let the sunrise remind me that I’m still alive, still breathing. Most days, I’m parked somewhere quiet—maybe a BLM spot in Arizona or a National Forest in Colorado. I’ve even made it out to Oregon once. Those mornings are the best, when the world is still and it feels like it belongs to me alone.
Life isn’t easy, though. I budget every penny, choosing between groceries or gas. Sadie needs her medication, and I’d sooner skip a meal than see her go without. Some nights, I lay awake worrying about what I’ll do if Miss Daisy needs a big repair. But somehow, the pieces always fall into place. Kind strangers, odd jobs, or the kindness of fellow nomads fill in the gaps.
I’ve made friends out here—real friends. People like Brenda, who taught me how to make a little extra money crafting jewelry, or Steve, who showed me how to patch a leaky roof vent. We have potluck dinners around campfires, trade stories, and look out for each other. We laugh about things that used to terrify us, like getting stuck in the mud or running out of propane.
The road has taught me resilience. When I’m parked near a town, I use the library Wi-Fi to check emails or do surveys online for a little extra cash. Thrift stores are my go-to for supplies, and I’ve learned to cook hearty meals on a two-burner stove. When the weather turns cold, I follow the sun south like the birds.
And there’s beauty in the little things. The kindness of strangers offering a hot meal, the joy of finding a perfect campsite nestled in the trees, or the satisfaction of a sunset painting the desert in gold. I’ve learned to let go of things that don’t matter—fancy clothes, keeping up with the Joneses, even the idea of a permanent home.
Sadie is slowing down now. She’s been my anchor through all of this, and I dread the day she won’t be by my side. But she’s taught me so much about loyalty and unconditional love. She reminds me to savor every moment, even the hard ones.
Sometimes I wonder what people think when they see me. Just an old woman with a van and a dog. They don’t know the freedom I’ve found or the pride I feel in making this work. The road isn’t for everyone, but for me, it’s been a second chance.
When I think about my life now, it doesn’t feel small. It feels wide open, full of possibility and adventure. The road has given me purpose, resilience, and a new kind of home. And for that, I’m grateful.
