Burnout on Four Wheels: My Evolving Relationship with Vanlife
In 2021, as the world stood still during the pandemic, Natalie and I did something that felt radically freeing—we bought a van and built it out into our own tiny home on wheels. We were inspired by all the dreamy YouTube channels and Instagram reels of nomads chasing sunsets, waking up in mountain vistas, and living cozy, curated lives on the road. The builds were beautiful—sometimes more inviting than real homes—and the promise of freedom, spontaneity, and adventure pulled us in like a tide.
And for a while, van life was exactly that: magical.
Over the past few years, we crisscrossed nearly every corner of the country—from New Mexico to British Columbia, from Maine to Arkansas. We lived out of our van for weeks, then months, at a time. We watched sunrises over the desert, slept under towering forests, and shared countless unforgettable experiences together. But what you don’t often see in those carefully edited highlight reels is the other side of van life—the exhaustion, the anxiety, the isolation, and the breakdowns (both mechanical and emotional).
When we were only doing short trips, it was easy to overlook the challenges. But long-term van life is a different beast. Living in a tiny metal box without reliable climate control isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s mentally draining. Working full-time from the road, relying on power-hungry satellite internet, and constantly calculating how much juice our janky solar panels could provide became a daily stressor. At one point, those panels were literally ripping off the roof when we drove too fast.
And then came the mechanical issues.
A cracked flex plate in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas. A failing manifold in Washington State. A jerking engine on a lonely highway in Iowa. Every breakdown brought a new kind of stress—the kind that hits you when you're stranded in an unfamiliar place, the only mechanic in town is closed for the weekend, and you're wondering if the van will even make it to the next town. One summer, it felt like the van spent more time in the shop than it did on the road.
And yet, we kept going. Because those magical mornings—waking up in the woods with sunlight streaming through the trees—still tugged at my heart.
But this year—2025—marks five years of van life. And for the first time ever, I felt something different: I wanted to go home.
It hit me on a short overnight trip to Littleton, New Hampshire, with my cat, Mojave. He had never been in the van before. I figured it would be a fun little experiment, but instead, I found myself overwhelmed. Cleaning up litter, worrying about him escaping every time I opened the door, feeling trapped in the rain with nowhere cozy to go—it was a new kind of stress layered onto old ones. For the first time in years, I longed for a real bed, for comfort, for stability.
And it made me question: What does van life really mean to me now?
I still love it. I’m not giving it up. But I’m evolving. I'm starting to see the appeal of doing things differently. Maybe for the next big trip out west, I’ll fly. Maybe I’ll rent a car, get an Airbnb, bring my tent, and just enjoy hiking without the weight of van repairs or the uncertainty of where to sleep. Maybe that’s not a step back—it’s just a new way of doing things that respects where I’m at in life.
Because the truth is, full-time van life is not easy. It’s not always pretty. It’s not always free. It takes an enormous mental and physical toll. Last summer, driving back from Colorado through 105-degree heat—even at 10,000 feet—I remember sweating through my clothes, trying to work inside what felt like an oven. My laptop kept overheating. I was faint, dehydrated, miserable. And I just thought, I don’t want to do this anymore.
And I know I’m not the only one. Many of the people who once championed full-time van life are slowing down. They're buying home bases, taking shorter trips, finding new ways to balance adventure with comfort. And I get it now. I really get it.
This spring, I found myself going through the motions again—contemplating a summer van trip. At first, I was optimistic. Maybe Mojave will get used to the van. Maybe I can install an AC unit. Maybe I’ll stay at RV parks so I can plug it in. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Then I thought: maybe I’ll just wait until early fall. But when I spent over two hours on a holiday weekend circling around looking for a place to camp—and found every spot booked or full—it reminded me just how inaccessible van life has become in so many places. The search for a place to stay can be absolutely draining. Since the pandemic, the surge of new van campers has overwhelmed many popular spots, and as a result, municipalities have started cracking down—limiting overnight parking, shutting down dispersed camping areas, and enforcing stricter regulations to prevent crowding, trash, and misuse of resources. A huge number of spots once listed on iOverlander are now marked as closed or restricted. In many areas, camping has become incredibly limited, and sometimes you have to drive for hours just to find a place that works out—and even then, it’s rarely ideal.
So I’ve decided: this will be a rest year from long van trips. Sure, I might still take the van up to Maine, or explore upstate New York or Quebec. But I’m likely skipping Colorado this year. The thought of doing that drive solo—while juggling the uncertainty of heat, breakdowns, and traveling with a cat—just doesn’t feel worth it.
This summer, I’m leaning into ease. Shorter trips. Fly-to destinations. Cabins and trailheads without the weight of survival logistics. I want to enjoy the outdoors without the chaos of living on the edge of it.
Because sometimes, rest is the adventure. And letting go of what once worked might just be the most freeing thing of all. Not saying goodbye - just switching gears a little bit this summer. For those of you still living on the road - happy boon docking!
Vanlife - A life of contrasts.
Sometimes…
vanlife Looks like this…
On the Western Slope of Colorado, dispersed camping options are slightly more abundant than in places like Summit County or Steamboat—but only slightly. Many roads require 4×4 vehicles, so while exploring the area, we stayed several times at this scenic pull-off. Not complaining, the scenery was great! However, it was quite loud, with trucks buzzing all night using compression brakes.
Dispersed camping just outside Creede, CO with a friend, the day after hiking San Luis Peak. This was a lucky find—an example of the kind of scenery you get with vanlife—but it’s not always like this, and it’s not always easy to find places like this.
Alabama Hills has grown in popularity so much during the pandemic that the BLM ended up closing the majority of dispersed camping sites. I drove around for about two hours, encountering only "CLOSED" signs, eventually finding a single group area.
National Parks do not allow camping anywhere except in designated campgrounds, and those trying to get away with parking overnight at trailheads often get knocked on. That said, we spent some time around Rainier, finding camping spots just outside the park.
What felt like the ONLY accessible and available camping spot in all of Alabama Hills when I visited. Absolutely stunning, and I was lucky to have a few moments to myself before 6 other vans showed up.
One morning in Olympic National Park—since overnight parking isn’t allowed inside the park, we stayed a couple of nights at a rest area in Port Angeles. From there, we made the early drive to Hurricane Ridge to watch the sunrise. The views at dawn are incredible, making it worth the early start, though I wish camping was allowed there overnight. National parks specifically are very strict on vanlife, so plan accordingly if you want to catch those magical early hours.
Camping after failing to find reliable overnight parking in Tucson. Even the Walmart locations did not allow camping due to city ordinances. Luckily, this trailhead about 10 miles outside the city worked out well.
BLM dispersed camping area just outside Havasu City, AZ — sadly, one of the areas that was recently proposed to be sold off before being removed from the final version of the Senate reconciliation bill.
But most of the time…
I don’t know the exact statistic, but from personal experience - it feels like about 75% of all campsite locations on iOverlander are now marked as closed that existed 4-5 years ago.
Many nights - you’re at rest areas, gas stations, grocery store parking lots…it’s not glamorous. Though that sunset on a NY I-90 rest area was lovely.