Chavurat Derekh HaMashiach

Most people don’t know what to do with me when I tell them Kenny and I live out of my van. They tilt their head, squint a little, like maybe they misheard me. Then comes the follow‑up question — “What’s your address?” — and I watch their face do that slow-motion collapse when I tell them I don’t have one. Suddenly I’m “homeless,” and they look at me with pity, which honestly feels heavier than any backpack I’ve ever carried.

If I try to explain that it’s by choice, that I’ve got friends scattered across the country like mile markers and I visit them as I go, the confusion deepens. Then they assume I must be wealthy, because apparently freedom is expensive unless you’re dreaming about it instead of living it.

The truth is, a lot of people talk about wanting freedom, but they can’t picture what freedom actually looks like. They imagine a vacation. I imagine a highway.

For me and Kenny, freedom is the music turned up just loud enough to drown out yesterday. It’s Kenny leaning halfway out the window, ears flapping, inhaling every scent like he’s trying to memorize the whole world. It’s spotting a beautiful scene — a sunrise over a field, a foggy mountain ridge, a stretch of beach that looks like it’s been waiting for us — and pulling over just because we can.

Sometimes we roam. Sometimes we take photos. Sometimes we explore a trail that wasn’t on any map. And when the day winds down, we find a place to land: a truck stop glowing like a lighthouse, a quiet rest area, a diner parking lot that smells like pancakes, a sandy pull‑off along the coast, or a tree‑tunneled road with a perfect little nook to disappear into for the night.I

t’s not glamorous. It’s not curated. It’s not sponsored. It’s a lifestyle I was built for.

Kenny thinks so too. Every new place is a new catalog of smells, a new squirrel to chase, a new patch of grass to claim as his temporary kingdom. And when funds get tight — because they do — we tuck into the driveways of family or friends, share stories, recharge, and keep rolling. My pension is small, but it’s enough to keep the wheels turning when the road calls.

People see “no address” and think “lost.” But I’ve never felt more found.

Out here, I’m not anchored, but I’m not drifting. I’m not settled, but I’m not unstable. I’m not wealthy, but I’m rich in all the ways that matter. This is my life — me, Kenny, the van, and the open road — and every mile feels like a chapter I was always meant to write.