This Has to Look Like Freedom

Every day is the same day and every night is the same night.

That’s the honest truth of my life right now. I have sat on my couch or in my garage in silence for weeks and months. The only human connection I have is the connection I have to leave my house and go find. It’s a quiet, lonely existence punctuated by the frustrating hope of people saying "we should hang out," knowing it will never happen.

And now, there are changes coming. Big ones.

I'm moving into a used, aged camper. A 2003 Sportsmen that needs work. I don't know much about this lifestyle. I don't even know where I can legally park it yet. These are the logistical hurdles I wrestle with late at night, alone, in a house that's about to be torn apart by a remodel.

These are the things I wish I could discuss with someone here. The uncertainty. The fear. It drives a special kind of loneliness, knowing that the move I have to make might make me even more secluded.

And then there's the bigger fear. The one that keeps me up at night.

The fear of being seen as a bad dad.

Because this move—this has to look like freedom and winning to my son, Connor. It has to be an adventure. It has to be "Dad is building us a cool new mission control center."

It cannot, under any circumstances, look like the truth: "Dad failed and can't afford rent."

F*ck rent anyway.

But that's the war, isn't it? It's the internal battle to reframe a survival move as a strategic advance. To turn a desperate retreat into a charge. It’s about building a narrative for your child that you're not even sure you believe yourself.

This camper isn't a choice; it's a necessity. But for him, it has to be a dream.

Maybe the real work of being "Out Here" isn't just about surviving the big, dramatic moments. Maybe it's about surviving the quiet, terrifying moments of transition. It's about finding the strength to build a new home, even when you're not sure what that home looks like. And it's about having the courage to look your son in the eye and sell him on a future you're still building, one broken piece at a time.

This isn't failure. This is what it looks like to build your own damn track when the old one has been completely washed away. And for him, I'll make sure it's the most beautiful track in the world.