The adaptable mind and how it impacts full-time travel

"The grass is always greener where I am."

I know that's not the typical phrase, but it's been true over the past two years, as we've navigated the country, only to return back to our home state of Massachusetts occasionally. Our first year of RV life, we traveled for five months, returned back to New England, set out again a month later, and then returned in November. Our second year, we traveled for ten months and returned for the remaining two. While we don't plan to settle back in MA after our nomadic chapter ends, we do feel that a part of our hearts will always be here.

Whenever we return, no matter how much I love the RV life, I find myself daydreaming about the place we do plan to settle down, across Massachusetts' northern border in New Hampshire. I might even do some perusing of Zillow to see what's on the market. Then, when the time comes to head back on the road, the apprehension brings about the whole spectrum of emotions, from excitement, to longing, to sadness.

I know this isn't the case for some full-time RVers. Many hit the road and don't look back. Some feel like they have their hearts in multiple places. Others hit the road in order to search for their future home. But one mindset seems fairly universal: Before making the big decision to go nomadic, we find ways to cushion the change.

"Let's just try it for a year and see how we like it."
"We're doing this as part of a job."
"We're doing this while we look for a home."

In a lot of ways, we've cracked a code. I can't count how many times people asked us, "But what if you don't like it?" Almost like full-time traveling is a forever commitment, and we can never change our minds. We simply answer, "Then we stop." It's wise to have an escape plan, even if you do plan on traveling forever, because sometimes things happen. Illness might strike. An emergency might occur. But usually, it's a feeling that creeps in and starts growing, growing, growing, until it's time to take a hard look at life and go, "This is no longer working."

That's how we made the initial decision to sell our house in 2021. After seven years, it was no longer working for us. We initially thought we would move to NH then and there, as dreams of our "mountain home" began years prior, but in order to do it the way we wanted, we'd need more money and more overall wisdom. RV life was the avenue to acquire both. We had lots of solid reasons to hit the road full-time, and we used them time and time again to convince our loved ones that we were in fact of sound mind. Still, as launch day approached, we used our mental cushion over and over: "We can always stop." "We can always stop."

It's advice that I find myself offering to lots of RVer friends, whether they're beginning full-time life or ending it. "This is only as permanent as you want it to be." This is why many RVers before launching full-time say they're going to go for 6 months or a year, but then often stay out much longer. The idea of permanence is extremely daunting, but 6 months seems doable. When we took the leap, we had plans to go from February until October, at which point we'd be back in New England and could decide whether or not to stay. Once we got on the road, we fell in love, and the option of a New England dwelling, while appealing, wasn't as attractive as year two on the road.

When year two ended and we returned to MA, we had no doubts that we'd be leaving again after the holidays, but that didn't stop us from thinking about the day that we might be less enthused to start our next nomadic year. Part of this is just good planning; we want to ensure we're covering all our bases and securing our future happiness. On the other hand, we're also still cushioning our decisions. Yes, we'll head out for year 3, but we don't need to do a year 4, or 5, or 6, unless we want to.

Are these mental cushions for us, for our loved ones, for society, or a combination? We remained steadfast in our plan to RV only as long as it makes sense for us. We don't know the exact time frame, but we know that it won't be permanent for us - at least to the extent that we can predict the future. But we can assume that some RVers have an inkling that they might stay on the road for decades - maybe even a lifetime - but they never quite say it out loud, in case something changes, or to give their friends and family hope of their return.

Then there's the societal pressure, something that's an ever-changing zeitgeist. Up until around the time we launched, nomadism wasn't really on people's radars, unless they themselves were thinking about becoming nomadic. Society expects a certain timeline in a person's life, one that includes "buying a house and settling down." Anthony and I did that, but then seven years later, we upended the whole plan. Then, post-pandemic, "wanderlust" has become an enticing term. Articles about nomads are now getting published in mainstream media, and Instagram and YouTube are blowing up with footage of life on the road, on the rails, or in the air. Nomads who choose to stop traveling and settle down often talk about how they feel they are being ridiculed by their community, like they're quitting something that they aren't strong or courageous enough to continue. That's completely the wrong way to see it; the courage was in doing it in the first place, and there is more courage in stopping when it's right for you. As a community, we need to do better with acceptance of other people's choices.

When we announced that we decided to travel full-time, we were met with a lot less backlash than some of our fellow RVers, but we did notice that most people took a "We'll believe it when we see it" approach. When we actually made the move, we noticed something surprising. Most people accepted it, no more questions asked. "Nomad" became part of our identity, and now it's normalized in our social circles. We also noticed a positive feedback loop: The more reinforcement we got that full-timing was the right decision, the more reinforcement our loved ones got that they need not be concerned for our happiness and well-being.

This is because the human mind is extremely adaptable. We have a high level of cognition that overrides this adaptability on many occasions, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it does sometimes lower our confidence that we can undergo a big change and come out alive, sometimes thriving. That's why actually doing the big things - grabbing life by the reins and giddying up into whatever comprises our wildest dreams - is the key to proving how adaptable we are. We expose ourselves to new experiences and as a result, we build synapses in our brains, restructuring our neuronal connections. This happens on a sensory level when we see a new place, hear new sounds, or smell new smells. It happens on a more conscious level when we learn something new - something that's guaranteed if we pick ourselves up and plop us in the unknown. And on an emotional level, we build up fear wherever we don't have a guarantee, and then when our brain actually experiences this unknown, it can finally connect the dots. Our brain is programmed for routine, so whenever there is a threat to routine, it sounds an alarm. Full-time travel reprograms the brain so that this alarm is a little less blaring. We certainly still have fear of the unknown, but the more we travel, the more we "know," and our brain uses those experiences to connect the dots, thus lessening the perceived threat.

What's funny though, is that our first year of RV travel was no less guaranteed than someone else's year at the house they've lived in for 50 years. We just perceive the future differently because our brains fill in the gaps with what it knows. It knew nothing about what the RV life would look like, but if a person is going into their 51st year at the same house, the brain has plenty of reference points to create an image of the future. Even as we set out for season 3 of travel, do Anthony and I actually have a guarantee on what the year will look like? No, but because our brains have formulated scripts for "RV life" in the past two years, we think we can picture how it will be.

The brain works this way in situations far beyond RV travel. When we returned after our first year on the road, my mother was retiring from her 40+ year career as an audiologist. Every time we'd talk about her retirement, she would somehow work into the conversation, "Yes, but when they hire a new audiologist, I will go into the clinic to train her." This was her mental cushion. She was facing an unknown, and so she rested on this notion of "Leaving the clinic won't be forever." Fast forward several months, when the clinic was starting to interview new audiologists, and suddenly my mom's reaction was "Ugh, but I don't want to have to commute all the way into Boston if they hire this person!" She had officially settled into her new life chapter and has found new fulfillment in the process.

We must ask ourselves then, do we overthink transition? Is it beneficial to do so? We could ponder these questions forever, but the bottom line is, when change is on the horizon, maybe we don't need to be as fearful as we think. And even more importantly, perhaps when an opportunity arises to grab life by the reins, we shouldn't hesitate to gallop on forth. Whatever happens, we'll adapt. And if we don't...the change is only as permanent as we want it to be.