Getting rid of all of my earthy possessions and moving into an RV wasn’t the dumbest thing I’d ever done. Shoot, it wasn’t even the craziest idea that I’d had that week. But once those wheels on the crazy train started turning, I couldn’t stop them. I was doing this. Before I knew it, I was letting strangers from Craigslist canvas the contents of my spacious Boulder, CO apartment—watching them leave with things I’d spent the past decade accumulating. What I couldn’t sell, I donated. I was determined that it all had to go, and once the last box was removed from my old digs and the keys returned to my old (and curmudgeonly) landlord, the first wave of panic set in. The second wave came crashing over me when I truly realized the actual square-footage of closet space I had to work with in my new 400 square-foot home on wheels. It’s a sad game of real life “would you rather” when the time comes to decide which articles of clothing and shoes will end up on the twelve hangers and in the three drawers available in your new home. As I packed away all of the hangers that I would no longer need, it really hit me. #RVLife wasn’t just a cool hashtag I could use on Instagram, it was my life.

Night one in the RV was pretty peaceful, that is until I woke up in the middle of the night unsure if a psycho serial killer was actually driving off in my RV with me in tow, or if it was just a dream. (Author’s Note: It was in fact just a dream.) Night two in the RV, cocky from a mostly good night’s sleep, I decided to break in my tiny RV kitchen—which resulted in a burnt frozen pizza and a wailing smoke alarm—an accomplishment that I wasn’t aware was possible in such a small and quaint space. In the month since making the big move to RV-living, I’ve learned a lot. Like to never leave your mouth open when opening the roof vents for air. And bugs? They like RV-living, too. Big ones, small ones—RV Life is very inviting. Two weeks ago, I learned the most important lesson yet: never leave the screen door open. Like, never. Because when you do, you’ll wake up in the morning to a large, angry wasp charging through your bedroom, which will most likely lead to you making a fool out of yourself falling through the front door of your RV in your pajamas while people passing by point and stare.

But it hasn’t all been bad. Breaking the connection with things that really had no meaning in my life has allowed me to make better connections with the things that do matter to me—like travel, family and the great outdoors. Without a mortgage or rent payment, I have more money in my bank account, something a vagabond freelance writer rarely has the opportunity to say. And I found solitude and the peace and quiet I’d been searching for in the mountains of Colorado, and an overwhelming sense to take only what I need and do my part to take care of this planet. My water and energy usage is down. My time spent outdoors is up. All in all, it’s been a good move.

At the end of the day, I’m in it for at least a year. Who knows, after 365 days, I might be crawling back to the city on my hands and knees, begging civilization and normalcy to take me back. And maybe I’ll live out the rest of my days drinking from tiny plastic bottles of wine and eating burnt pizza off of my RV dining room table/desk which conveniently folds into a guest bed.

There’s really no telling where the future will take me. I guess that’s the beauty of it all.